GIFT  OF 
Class  of  1887 


Ooe^* 


Selected  Poems 


Ebarles  German  flllen 


TReal  Ibero 


Your  navy  may  be  iron-clad, 

Its  missiles  weigh  a  ton, 
These  count  but  little  when  compared 
With— 

The  man 

behind 

the  gun. 

The  swiftest  cruiser  comes  to  grief 

And  has  to  turn  and  run, 
If  he  lacks  the  right  material 
In— 

The  man 

behind 

the  gun. 

The  admiral  in  blue  and  gold, 

Resplendent  as  the  sun, 
If  a  true  man,  takes  off  his  hat 
To— 

The  man 

behind 

the  gun. 

In  the  hour  of  fiercest  combat 

No  danger  can  be  shun, 
But  standing  steadfast  at  his  post 
Is— 

The  man 

behind 

the  gun. 

If  honors  are  to  be  bestowed 
Count  heroes,  one  by  one, 
Pray  don't  forget  the  grimy  face 
Of- 

The  man 

behind 

the  gun. 

And  when  sweet  peace  shall  come 

again 

When  victory  has  been  won, 
Let  praises  peal  from  every  throat 
For— 

The  man 

behind 

the  gun. 

C.  H.  A. 


SELECTED  POEMS 


OF 


CHARLES  HERMAN  ALLEN, 


1  And  here's  to  the  friend,  the  dear  friend  of  our  youth, 
With  a  head  full  of  genius,  a  heart  hill  of  truth, 
Who  guided  our  feet  in  the  sunshine  of  life, 
Who  has  stood  by  our  side  in  its  peace  and  its  strife." 


SAN  JOSE,  CALIFORNIA. 
1900. 


SELECTED  POEMS 


OF 


CHARLES  HERMAN  ALLEN. 


1  And  here's  to  the  friend,  the  dear  friend  of  our  youth, 
With  a  head  full  of  genius,  a  heart  lull  of  truth, 
Who  guided  our  feet  in  the  sunshine  of  life, 
Who  has  stood  by  our  side  in  its  peace  and  its  strife." 


SAN  JOSE,  CALIFORNIA. 
1900. 


COPYRIGHT, 
1900 


«ESS    OF   A.    C     EATON. 


This  boo^  is  published  and  presented  to   the  author 
by  many  friends,    in  to^en  of  their  esteem 
and  of  their  appreciation   of  his   life 
and  educational 


8810:84 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  Salute  to  the  Flag 7 

Welcome  to  the  Grand  Army 8 

Shasta  Spring 11 

For  a  Floral  Exhibition 12 

To  the  Eschscholtzia 13 

A  Stormy  Day  on  Mount  Shasta     .   "1    .     '.     .     .     14 

Fly  Fishing  on  Webber  Lake .14 

The  Welcome  Rain 16 

The  Teacher's  Work 17 

The  Bright  Side \  ....     18 

Things  Are  Not  What  They  Seem     .     V     .      .      .18 

Auf  Wiedersehn ~.     ....     19 

The  Temple  of  Silence 20 

Twilight  Musings 21 

Extracts  from  Letters 22 

A  Wedding  Anniversary 25 

To  the  Faculty 26 

A  Presentation .28 

Planting  of  a  Class  Tree .      .30 

Columbus .     .     32 

Our  Memorial  Tree 34 

Educational  Fads  and  Foibles  36 


t©  tfc*  Teasers  ©f  GUIfon)!*. 


All  hail  our  Country's  Flag !     We  honor  thee, 
The  Stars  and  Stripes,  fair  emblem  of  the  free, 

So  widely,  justly  famed  in  song  and  story. 
Saluting  thee,  this  solemn  pledge  I  give — 
I  will  be  true,  so  long  as  I  shall  live, 

And  ever  loyal  unto  thee,  "Old  Glory  !" 


i)c*njpn;*i;tr  S&n?  jr©se,  August,  1886 


Veterans  and  comrades,  it  will  be  our  boast 
That  once  you  met  on  the  Pacific  Coast. 
This  marks  an  era  in  time's  rapid  flight, 
And  so  we  bid  you  welcome  here  to-night. 
We  know  full  well  that  on  your  march  this  way 
You  have  encountered  one  great  holiday  ; 
That  tens  of  thousands,  all  along  the  line, 
Have  bade  you  welcome,  both  by  word  and  sign. 
All  have  rejoiced  to  meet  "the  boys  in  blue," 
And  California  gives  you  welcome,  too. 
Welcome  to  those  who,  at  their  Country's  call, 
Upon  her  sacred  altar  laid  their  all. 
Welcome  to  those  who,  in  the  hour  of  need 
Grasped  sword  or  musket,  and,  with  anxious  speed, 
Went  forth  to  mingle  in  the  fateful  strife, 
And  do  good  battle  for  a  Nation's  life. 
Welcome  to  those  who  stood  firm  as  a  rock, 
Nor  yielded  to  the  battle's  fiercest  shock, 
Who  proudly  bore  the  grand  old  flag  on  high, 
Whose  watchword  was  "Defend  the  flag  or  die  !" 
Welcome  to  those  who  come  with  many  scars, 
Each  scar  made  sacred  by  the  stripes  and  stars  ; 
To  those  who  with  the  home  guard  did  not  lag, 
But  made  the  world  respect  our  Country's  flag. 
Welcome  to  those  who  led  our  armed  hosts  ; 
But  those  "who  only  fit"  we  welcome  most. 
Time  has  made  ranks  and  titles  disappear, 
All  stand  as  equals — only  comrades  here. 
Welcome  the  remnant,  small,  but  true  and  tried, 


Of  that  great  army,  still  our  Nation's  pride. 

Its  ranks  grow  thinner,  thinner  day  by  day, 

Soon  the  last  veteran  will  have  passed  away  ;       , 

And  if  our  comrades  on  the  other  side, 

In  earthly  things  can  yet  feel  joy  or  pride, 

Then  shall  such  camp-fires  as  are  neld  to-night, 

To  them  make  all  the  joys  of  heaven  more  bright ; 

And  as  they  see  our  land  all  one  again, 

Then  shall  they  know  they  did  not  die  in  vain. 

We  sing  a  welcome  in  a  softer  strain 

To  those  who  ministered  by  beds  of  pain — 

The  great  "Relief   Corps" — woman's  noble  part, 

To  which  she  gave  her  hand,  her  head  her  heart. 

Her  kindly  hand,  busy  through  all  the  strife, 

Nursed  many  a  dying  hero  back  to  life. 

Her  head  sought  new  devices,  homelike  joys, 

Giving  good  cheer  to  convalescing  boys. 

Her  heart  gave  comfort  in  the  dying  hour, 

And  at  such  times,  hers  was  an  angel's  power. 

Welcome  to  sisters,  daughters,  sweethearts,  wives, 

Who  gave  our  country  then  more  than  their  lives; 

For  woman  yielded  more  than  man,  we  know, 

When  blanched  lips  whispered,  "Darling,  you  must  go." 

Welcome  from  lofty  Shasta 's  snowy  crown; 

Welcome  from  fertile  valleys,  rich  and  brown  ; 

Welcome  from  mountain  rills  and  broader  streams; 

Welcome  from  mines  where  gold  or  silver  gleams; 

Welcome  from  orange  groves,  so  bright  and  fair, 

From  vineyards  ripening  in  our  balmy  air; 

Welcome  from  yellow  grain  fields,  waving  free; 

Welcome  from  fruitful  foothills,  fair  to  see, 

From  tall  sequoias,  reaching  to  the  skies, 

From  dark  leaved  pines  that  welcomes  breathe  in  sighs; 

Welcome  from  grand  Yosemite,  where  man 

Sinks  to  a  pigmy  by  El  Capitan; 


10 

Welcome  from  old  Pacific — for  each  wave 

Rolls  out  its  welcome,  "Honor  to  the  brave  !" 

Comrades,  the  warmest  welcome  yet  remains  : 

For  more  than  twenty  years,  across  the  plains, 

Each  State,  each  corps,  almost  each  regiment, 

A  constant  line  of  skirmishers  has  sent. 

These  have  made  homes  upon  this  lovely  coast, 

And  bid  you  welcome  now  from  every  Post; 

And  from  the  heart  all  these  say  :  "Welcome,  Hail !" 

The  friendship  sealed  in  blood  shall  never  fail. 

With  throbbing  hearts,  with  eyes  brimful  of  tears  — 

Tears  that  obscure  all  intervening  years — 

They  stretch  forth  hands.    What  if  the  old  hands  quake? 

The  cheery  voice  cries  out,     "Old  Comrade,  shake  !  " 

What  though  the  flashing  eye  is  somewhat  dim? 

What  though  we  are  no  longer  strong  of  limb? 

What  though  the  locks  are  thin  and  streaked  with  gray? 

What  though  the  bloom  of  youth  has  passed  away? 

What  though  we  sometimes  speak  with  faltering  tongue  ? 

Brave  hearts  and  true,  such  hearts  are  always  you??g. 

Comrades,  to-day  our  glorious  land  is  one; 

No  fairer  heritage  beneath  the  sun. 

No  North,  no  South,  no  East,  no  West  we  know; 

Who  preaches  Section  is  his  country's  foe. 

Let  this  refrain  go  up  from  shore  to  shore  : 

"One  Flag,  one  Country,  now  and  evermore." 


II 


[A  Prize  Poem.] 

Hail,  glorious  Shasta  !     Silent  and  alone  ! 
Crowned  with  a  grandeur  that  is  all  thine  own ! 
Thy  towering  pinnacles  are  passing  fair, 
Glistening,  resplendent  in  the  upper  air ; 
Thou  look'st  serenely  on  the  world  below, 
Decked  in  thine  ermine  of  eternal  snow. 

Great  frozen  rivers  creep  adown  thy  sides, 
And  at  thy  foot  the  melted  torrents  glide  ; 
L,oosed  from  their  icy  bonds  by  fires  below, 
Down  through  thy  bosom  crystal  streamlets  flow, 
And  in  thy  sacred  heart  slowly  distilled, 
Are  with  life-giving  virtues  richly  filled. 

Still  on  through  fissures  dark  they  pass ;  at  length 
Carbonic  gases  add  their  magic  strength  ; 
Charged  with  new  life  the  water  gurgles  on, 
Seeking  an  outlet  which  it  finds  anon, 
And  here  it  gushes  forth,  a  joyous  thing, 
Sparkling  and  bubbling.     This  is  Shasta  Spring. 

In  Nature's  grand  alembic,  thus  distilled, 
It  asks  no  aid  from  man,  however  skilled ; 
Fresh  from  the  fountain's  brim  it  slakes  the  thirst, 
And  heals  the  ills  with  which  poor  flesh  is  cursed  ; 
A  grand,  a  precious  boon,  far  famed  and  wide, 
The  world's  great  blessing — California's  pride. 

The  dun  deer  sought  it  for  a  cooling  draught, 
And  with  its  waters  strength  and  vigor  quaffed. 
Thither  the  red  man  turned  when  fever  raged, 
And  by  its  spell  the  burning  heat  assuaged. 
Ages  passed  on ;  yet  silent  and  alone 
Its  work  was  done,  unheralded,  unknown. 


12 


Its  healing  virtues  were  at  length  revealed, 
Like  truth,  that  never  can  be  long  concealed. 
To-day  it  stands  "The  Queen  of  Waters."     Now 
All  other  claimants  at  its  shrine  must  bow. 
Hail,  Shasta  Spring  !     Thou  seem'st  in  very  truth 
The  long  sought  "Fountain  of  Eternal  Youth." 


1891. 


[An  Extract.] 

Hail,  Flora,  goddess  !  at  thy  fragrant  shrine 

To-day  we  worship ;  here  the  world  is  thine. 

These  offerings  bright,  gathered  from  far  and   near, 

This  wealth  of  blossoms  that  thou  seest  here, 

The  best  we  have,  are  made  an  offering  free, 

Laid  on  thine  altar,    sacrificed  to  thee. 

Our  hearts  go  with  our  gifts,  for  well  we  know 

That  where  thou  breathest  grace  and  beauty  glow  ; 

Where'er  thy  garments  trail,  thy  footsteps  press, 

The  earth  bursts  out  in  dreams  of  loveliness. 

From  fertile  valleys  dressed  in  living  green, 

To  Alpine  heights  thy  handiwork  is  seen ; 

The  whole  world,  underneath  thy  genial  sway, 

Adorns  herself  as  for  a  holiday. 


4e4icai«4  to  tl>*   Boar4  of  l-a^Iy  ^airj&gerj   ©f 
tije  California.  Vor!4p5    Pair 


Bright  golden  emblem  of  our  Golden  State, 

Flashing  athwart  our  hills  thy  tongues  of  flame, 
No  flower  more  beauteous  Flora  can  create, 

And  none  more  worthy  of  thy  lasting  fame. 
Thy  fragile  leaflets,  nodding  to  the  breeze, 

Drink  in  the  sunshine  of  each  daylight  hour, 
Treasure  it  up,  and  then  with  affluent  ease 

Return  it  to  us  in  a  rich,  resplendent  flower. 

Thy  slender  helmet  pointing  to  the  skies, 

Bathed  in  the  dews  of  "incense  breathing  morn," 
Leaps  from  its  seat,  then  with  a  glad  surprise 

Thy  petals  open  and  a  flower  is  born. 
The  meadow-lark  trills  forth  his  matin  lay, 

The  wild  bee  drones  its  drowsy,  cradle  hum, 
Glad  nature  welcomes  in  the  perfect  day, 

Rejoicing  that  the  beauteous  Queen  of  Flowers  has 
come. 


All  day  the  clouds  hung  lowering  in  the  skies, 

Rain  drops  in  mists  or  fitful  torrents  fell ; 
No  snow-capped  summit  met  our  waiting  eyes ; 

Has  Shasta  vanished,  as  by  magic  spell? 
No,  as  the  sun,  low  sinking  in  the  west, 

Sends  slanting  rays  athwart  the  floating  mist, 
The  clouds  grow  light,  the  winds  are  lulled  to  rest, 

The  eastern  hills  by  golden  rays  are  kissed. 

The  mountain's  form  is  seen,  partly  concealed, 

Draped  in  soft,  floating  clouds,  as  in  a  veil, 
Like  bashful  maiden,  half  her  charms  concealed, 

Modestly  waiting  till  the  daylight  fail. 
We  are  content ;  the  clouds  will  roll  away, 

The  grand  old  mountain  then  will  all  appear ; 
We  wait  in  patience  for  the  coming  day, 

Then  shall  we  stand  in  awe,  and  worship  here. 


Gently,  so  gently,  glides  our  boat  along, 
Softly,  good  boatman,  softly,  not  too  strong ; 
So  time  it  that  the  finely  feathered  lure, 
If  one  does  touch  it,  takes  and  holds  him  sure. 
Now  flash  the  glittering  bamboo  through  the  air, 
(Throw  from  the  wrist,  and  thus  the  shoulder  spare). 
The  curving  line  speeds  forward  straight  and  true, 
The  light  flies  kiss  the  wave  like  morning  dew. 
Now  ready,  hand  and  eye,  and  nerve  and  brain, 
Ready,  all  ready,  soon  may  come  the  strain. 


15 

So  move  we  on,  each  hoping  that  ere  long 

May  come  to  us  the  good  reel's  cheerful  song. 

The  glistening  waters  part.     Aha  !  a  splash  ! 

The  quick  response,   and  then  the  rapid  dash  ; 

"Bravo,  my  boy  !  bravo  !  but  not  so  fast, 

Your  days  of  freedom  soon,  I  trow,  are  past." 

Now  slightly  check  the  swiftly  humming  reel, 

Let  him  the  yielding,  springy  bamboo  feel ; 

Gently,  but  firmly,  curb  him  in  his  run, 

Know  that  the  battle  has  but  just  begun. 

He  leaps  in  air  and  shakes  his  prisoned  jaws, 

Goes  to  the  bottom,  makes  a  moment's  pause, 

Sulking  and  quiet,  trying  very  hard 

One  moment  now  to  take  you  off  your  guard  ; 

Then  from  the  boat  straight  out  he  takes  his  flight ; 

Give  him  more  line,  but  hold  it  rather  tight ; 

Again  in  air,  then  backward  toward  the  boat, 

Reel  in,  reel  in,  and  as  you  do  take  note 

How  he  is  hooked  ;  but  always  have  a  care, 

He  yet  has  will,  and  wit,  and  strength  to  spare. 

At  last  he  finds  to  struggle  is  no  use, 

Turns  on  his  back  and  shows  the  flag  of  truce, 

Comes  quickly,  meekly,  towards  the  landing  net; 

But  do  not  boast,  you  have  not  got  him  yet. 

Just  one  plunge  more,  and  then  he  yields  the  day, 

And  so  has  given  you,  really  splendid  play. 


16 


For  long,  long  weeks  the  skies  had  seemed  like  brass, 
The  parched  earth   basking  in  the  sun's  fierce  glare  ; 

The  pasture  fields  showed  only  withered  grass, 
Lying  like  desert  v/aste,  lifeless  and  bare. 

The  herds,  half-famished,  wandered  aimlessly, 
Lowing  for  food,  food  that  the  fields  denied, 

Struggling  for  life,  from  hunger  never  free, 
Or,  giving  up  the  strife,  lay  down  and  died. 

The  thrifty  farmer  watched  his  well-tilled  field, 
Saw  the  stunt  grain  wilt  'neath  the  northern  blast, 

Thought  sadly  of  the  crop  it  would  not  yield, 
Unless  the  sky  with  clouds  was  overcast. 

Then  came  the  south  wind  like  the  breath  of  God, 
A  cloud  appeared,  much  larger  than  the  hand, 

The  promise  was,  new  life  to  grain  and  sod, 
A  benison  of  rainfall  to  the  land. 

The  massing  clouds  grew  darker  hour  by  hour, 
The  flood-gates  all  were  opened,  hill  and  plain 

Received  and  swallowed  up  the  bounteous  shower, 
Rejoicing  in  the  welcome,  welcome  rain. 

Joy  comes  to  all  the  land  ;  the  thirsty  earth 

Drinks  from  the  floods  that  come  and  come  again, 

The  glorious  baptism  brings  a  glad  new  birth 

To  plant  and  flower — the  welcome,  welcome  rain. 

We  know  "seed  time  and  harvest  shall  not  fail," 

His  is  the  promise,  never  given  in  vain, 
Let  this  Hosanna  rise  from  hill  and  vale, 

"Thanks  to  the  bounteous  Giver  for  the  rain," 

MARCH,  1899. 


If,  of  the  pebbles  on  the  ocean  strand 

That  now  are  tossed  by  childhood's  busy  hand, 

One  in  a  thousand  were  a  precious  stone 

Needing  the  lapidary's  skill  alone 

To  break  the  hardened  crust,  the  enclosing  seal, 

And  all  its  hidden  beauties  to  reveal, 

Think  you  these  pebbles  would  unheeded  lie, 

Or  that  the  multitude  would  pass  them  by? 

No;    many  hands,    all  moved  by  greed  of  gain, 
Would  test  each  pebble,  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
Breaking  the  encrusting  surface  to  bring  forth 
All  that  lay  buried  there  of  wondrous  worth. 

Teachers,  each  child  committed  to  your  care 
Is  of  itself  a  jewel  far  more  rare 
Than  all  the  precious  gems  the  earth  can  give — 
A  soul,  that  through  eternity  shall  live. 

Yours  be  the  task  to  set  these  jewels  free 
From  crust  of  habit  or  heredity, 
To  make  each  well-cut  facet  brightly  shine 
With  luster  that  may  be  almost  divine. 
Not  like  the  pebbles,  many  cast  aside, 
Again  to  be  submerged  by  ocean  tide, 
The  latent  powers  of  every  child  await 
Your  training  as  the  almoner  of  fate  ; 
These  "little  ones",  committed  to  your  care, 
Their  glory  or  their  shame  you,  too,  must  share. 


iS 


Look  on  the  bright  side ;  the  world  is  before  us, 
All  covered  with  beauty  as  yet  ne'er  espied  ; 

Why  then  be  cast  down,  if  the  clouds  do  frown  o'er  us? 
There's  enjoyment  enough,  if  we  see  the  bright  side 

Look  on  the  bright  side  ;  there's  no  use  in  repining, 
For  we  never  can  alter  the  wind  or  the  tide ; 

All  hope  to  do  that,  then,  forever  resigning, 
May  we  learn,  in  its  place,  to  look  on  the  bright  side. 

Look  on  the  bright  side  ;  never  fear  for  the  morrow, 
Hope  the  best  from  the  things  that  as  yet  are  untried, 

And  if  it  should  chance  that  they  bring  with  them  sorrow, 
Its  weight  will  be  light,  if  we  see  the  bright  side. 

Away  then  with  blood-baking,  sad  Melancholy  ! 

In  our  homes,  heads,  or  hearts  may  he  never  abide  ; 
To  yield  to  his  frown  would  be  life's  greatest  folly, 

And  life's  greatest  wisdom  to  find  the  bright  side. 


It's  not   the  walking   but   the  sweeping   that   wears  the 

carpet  out ; 

It  is  not  work  that  kills  us  but  the  things  we  fret  about ; 
Not   the  wearing  but   the  washing   frays   our  garments 

through  and  through ; 
And   our  conscience   most   upbraids  us   for  the  good  wt 

meant  to  do. 


Auf  wiedersehn !  Aye,  though  our  paths  diverge, 
And  each  goes  on  his  toilsome,  happy  way, 

We  clasp  each  other's  hands,  keep  back  the  tears, 
For  there  may  come  again  a  meeting  day  ; 
Hope  sends  along  our  path  a  cheering  ray — 
Auf  wiedersehn  ! 

Auf  wiedersehn  !  In  this  great  changing  world, 
Meetings  and  partings — ah,  how  oft  they  come  ! 

Just  as  we  learn  to  love,  fate  bids  us  part  ; 

Hearts  speak,  although  the  quivering  lips  are  dumb. 
And  ears  drink  in  the  sweet  prophetic  hum — 
Auf  wiedersehn  ! 

Auf  wiedersehn !  Dark  clouds  and  storms  may  come, 
Hiding  loved  faces  from  fond,  longing  eyes, 

Drowning  loved  voices  in  the  whistling  blast  ; 
We  patient  wait  for  brighter,  fairer  skies, 
And  listen  for  a  sound  we  dearly  prize — 
Auf  wiedersehn  ! 

Auf  wiedersehn  !  The  time  draws  swiftly  on 
When  comes,  alas,  our  final  parting  here  ; 

Nor  love  nor  friendship  can  delay  the  hour, 
Yet  we  may  hope,  in  yon  celestial  sphere, 
A  sweet  reunion,  free  from  doubt  or  fear  ; 
Auf  wiedersehn ! 


German  salutation  at  parting— "May  we  meet  again  !  " 


20 


There  is  balm  for  the  soul  that  is  wounded, 

There  is  rest  from  the  burdens  of  life, 
There  is  calm  from  its  uproar  and  tumult, 

There  is  peace  from  all  turmoil  and  strife. 

For  those  who  are  bound  there  is  freedom, 

For  those  in  the  darkness  a  light, 
For  the  lost  there  is  guidance  and  shelter, 

And  the  day  is  the  child  of  the  night. 

Would' st  thou  learn  the  sweet  secret,  my  brother? 

"On  the  heights"  there  is  ever  repose ; 
There  the  prophets  and  martyrs  and  sages 

Found  rest  from  life's  turbulent  v/oes. 

Far  above  the  low  plane  of  life's  sorrows, 

Above  all  its  struggle  and  strife, 
Even  here  we  may  reach  the  eternal, 

And  enter  the  "fulness  of  life." 

Would 'st  thou  reach  these  fair  heights  near  to  Heaven, 

The  mountains  of  infinite  peace  ? 
Come  into  the  Temple  of  Silence, 

And  find  for  all  trouble  surcease. 

Leave  the  burden  of  self  at  the  portal — 

All  selfishness  weighs  like  a  clod — 
And  in  silence  thy  soul  is  made  ready, 

Becoming  the  temple  of  God. 


21 


The  day  is  done;  the  fading  sunlight  gently  falling, 
Fringes  the  mountain  tops  with  hues  of  gold ; 

The  night-bird,  from  his  perch,  his  tardy  mate  is  calling, 
Love's  message  sweetly  told. 

The  busy  hum  of  active,  throbbing  life  now  ceases, 

A  restful  silence  soon  embraces  all ; 
The  night  comes  on  apace,  darkness  increases, 

Like  some  funereal  pall. 

At  such  an  hour  fond  memory  spreads  her  magic  pinions, 
Waking  to  life  bright  visions  of  the  past, 

Showing  the  many  treasures  of  her  vast  dominions, 
Gems  all  too  bright  to  last. 

And  then   there  comas  that  deep,  that  soul-felt  tender 
longing 

That  scenes  like  these  might  be  our  lot  again ; 
Only  the  brighter  visions  that  come  trooping,  thronging, 

Are  brought  within  our  ken. 

The  darker  pictures,  merciful  and  wise  provision, 
But  faintly  outlined  on  the  changing  scene  ; 

The  whole  appears  to  us  a  beatific  vision, 
With  shadows  limned  between. 

All  fades  away  ;  and  loneliness  deep  and  unbroken, 
Comes  like  the  darkness  and  envelops  all ; 

The  soul  seems  dead,  awaiting  some  life-giving  token, 
Some  thrilling  bugle  call. 

TJC-  •#  -:£  •»  *'• 

Reason  resumes  her  sway  ;  the  past  is  gone  forever, 
The  "has  been,"  bright  or  sad,  no  more  can  be ; 

And  life  must  be  one  constant,  strong,  and  brave  endeavor 
To  brighten  what  must  be. 


22 

from®  Letters  t© 


Remember  that  sadness  is  very  near  joy  ; 
In  life  every  pleasure  must  have  its  alloy; 
The  bitter  but  brings  out  the  sweet  of  the  sweet, 
And  without  it  a  life  would  be  far  from  complete. 


Your  lines  are  delightful,  so  delicate  too, 
Every  part  of  the  verse  reminds  me  of  you; 
A  breath  from  the  forest,  a  tremor  that  thrills 
Like  the  joy  one  oft  feels,  looking  off  at  the  hills ; 
A  strain  of  soft  music  from  Nature's  sweet  lyre  ; 
A  breath  from  a  soul  lit  by  heavenly  fire. 
As  I  read  the  lines  through  a  fine  perfume  arose, 
As  sweet  as  the  scent  of  a  dew-laden  rose. 

Be  happy,  my  child  ;  the  Pierian  spring, 

To  you  and  to  others,  much  comfort  may  bring; 

But  a  heart  that  can  sing  such  a  tender  refrain, 

Has  sometime  been  touched  by  the  finger  of  pain. 

The  bell  sounds  no  note  of  joy  or  of  woe 

Until  its  repose  is  disturbed  by  a  blow ; 

The  leaves  change   their   hues   when   the   keen  frosts 

appear, 
And  the  beautiful  pearl  has  its  birth  in  a  tear. 


23 

You  have  yielded  and  coyly  said  "yes," 

Well,  maidens  can't  always  say  no. 
I  know  an  old  fellow  whose  life  has  been  blessed 

By  a  "yes"  that  was  said  years  ago. 

And  thus  may  you  bless  a  man's  life, 
Make  him  feel  as  I  feel  here  to-night, 

Life  is  hardly  worth  living  without  a  good  wife 
To  make  a  home  cheerful  and  bright. 

A  dignified  schoolma'am  no  more, 
Of  a  turbulent  schoolroom  the  head  ; 

These  troubles,  these  pleasures  with  you  are  all  o'er, 
You  must  be  be  a  staid  matron  instead. 

In  the  home  that  your  presence  shall  grace, 

May  love  be  the  one  guiding  star  ; 
May  peace  and  contentment  forever  find  place, 

With  never  a  discord  to  mar. 

The  froth  on  the  rippling  rill 

Dies  away  on  the  deep  flowing  river; 

So  your  love  should  grow  deeper,  its  surface  more 

still, 
But  the  current  must  flow  on  forever. 


Oft  when  I  stand  beside  a  swollen  stream 
Its  swirling  waters  to  my  fancy  seem 
Much  like  the  stream  of  life,  swift  gliding  on  ; 
A  leaf  flits  by,  and  as  you  gaze  is  gone. 
Small  floating  fragments  scurry  swiftly  past, 
Hastening  to  find  some  resting  place  at  last. 


24 

And  I  have  seen,  while  standing  on  the  brink, 

That  some  grow  weary,  and  then  slowly  sink, 

Leaving  no  trace  behind;  the  waters  close 

And  they  are  gone.     And  then  I  have  marked  those 

That  come  together,  as  with  friendly  grasp, 

Holding  each  other  in  a  loving  clasp, 

As  if  forever  they  could  journey  on, 

Bound  thus  together.     But  observe,  anon, 

The  stream  divides,  and  they  are  torn  asunder. 

Each  goes  its  separate  way:  well  may  we  wonder 

If  they  shall  ever  meet  and  clasp  again. 

Sometimes  they  do,  but  who  knows  where  or  when? 

Thus  on  life's  stream  we  have  been  thrown  together, 

Clasped   hands   in   love,   through    bright    and    stormy 

weather. 

The  stream  has  parted,  each  has  gone  his  way, 
But  memory  sends  a  bright,  heart-gladdening  ray 
Across  the  past — the  happy,  useful  years 
Made  sacred  by  our  common  joys  and  tears. 
Some  of  our  number  have  laid  down  the  load, 
Growing  aweary  of  life's  rugged  road, 
Their  life-work  finished  ;  shall  not  every  one 
Receive  the  welcome  plaudit — "Child,  well  done?  " 
To  those  who  still  remain,  those  gladsome  times 
Send  memories  sweet  as  happy  Christinas  chimes. 


"Time  in  advance  behind  him  hides  his  wings 
And  seems  to  creep,  decrepit  with  his  age' ' ; 

In  such  a  strain  the  grand  old  poet  sings, 
Showing  himself  a  poet  and  a  sage. 

"Behold  him  when  passed  by,  what  then  is  seen 
But  his  broad  pinions,  swifter  than  the  wind?" 

This,  too,  is  wisely  said,  as  well  I  ween, 
And  as  you  who  are  younger  soon  will  find 

And  so  our  friends  who  seventeen  years  ago 
Joined  hands  and  hearts  in  wedlock  by  love's  light, 

Had  they  looked  forward  with  a  wish  to  know, 
Far  off  had  seemed  this  celebration  night. 

But  as  they  backward  look,  the  happy  time 

Seems,    ah,  how  close  to  hand  !     For  on  the  way 

There  has  been  music,  and  the  golden  chime 
Of  children's  laughter,  and  of  children's  play. 

Five  times  the  mother   has  gone  down  the  vale  of  tears 
And  brought  an  angel  back  upon  her  breast ; 

And  these  have  made  such  happy,  happy  years, 
And  given  a  home  with  lasting  riches  blest. 

We  would  congratulate  them  then  to-night 

On  all  the  blessings    that  have  been  bestowed, 

And  wish  for  them  a  future  yet  more  bright, 
For  love  and  hope  will  lighten  every  load. 

And  as  they  journey  toward  the  setting  sun, 
The  shadows  stretching    backward,  gaunt  and   long, 

May  consciousness  of  duties  all  well  done 

Make  of  life's  closing  hours  an  "Evening  Song". 


26 


Ck>r*C*lf>t  ©f  &  fr$*utlf a! 


Kind  friends,  you  have  given  me  a  joyous  surprise 
In  the  beautiful  etching  that  gladdens  my  eyes  ; 
Where  can  there  be  found  a  fairer  ' 'sunrise"? 

I  had  thought,  off  up  here,  and  out  of  the  way, 

With  nothing  my  on-creeping  age  to  betray, 

That  you  would  not  remember  nor  think  of  the  day. 

That  I  made  a  mistake  seems  now  very  clear, 
For  your  kindly  good-will  has  followed  me  here, 
Just  as  it  has  followed  for  many  a  year. 

The  gift  is  suggestive,  perhaps  so  designed, 

For  one  on  a  ranch  will  certainly  find 

He  must  welcome  the  sunrise  or  soon  fall  behind. 

To  sleep  when  the  day  is  about  to  begin 
Is  to  lose  in  the  race  where  all  strive  to  win, 
And  is  reckoned  a  gross  horticultural  sin. 

The  hint  is  accepted,  the  picture  as  well, 

With  a  pleasure  that  words  seem  too  feeble  to  tell, 

For  words,  of  such  feelings,  are  only  the  shell. 

To-day  I  have  looked  through  the  past  sixteen  years, 
At  the  journey  I  entered  upon  with  great  fears ; 
How  sunny  the  long,  pleasant  pathway  appears ! 


27 

The  load  has  been  heavy,  as  you  are  aware, 
But  a  good-natured  Faculty  kept  the  sky  fair, 
And  with  your  help  the  burdens  were  easy  to  bear. 

When  shadows  have  thrown  themselves  over  the  way — 
And  shadows  are  darker,  the  brighter  the  day — 
The  cheer  of  your  faces  has  charmed  them  away. 

Many  changes  have  come ;  some  old  friends  are  gone; 
But  still  the  same  Faculty  always  works  on — 
Though  new  friends  have  joined  in  our  labors  anon — 

A  practical  unit  whate'er  may  arise, 

Bound  together  by  strong,  though  invisible  ties, 

Ties  ever  held  sacred  in  all  of  our  eyes. 

With  much  love  for  the  old  friends,  much  love  for  the  new, 
I  give  you  a  hand-clasp,  and  this  watchword  too — 
Be  true  to  yourselves,  to  the  Normal  be  true. 

And  may  the  Good  Father  keep  each  of  you  free 
From  life's  deepest  trials,  where'er  you  may  be, 
And  deal  kindly  with  you  as  you  have  with  me. 


23 


©B?  tfte  PrejeiijtatioBj  of  a  "©razy  Qul34"   to  ?v*.   ©<§©„   V. 

I  TP  I  8S4. 


J/irj.  Foote:     It  long  has  been  the  way 
To  celebrate  with  friends  the  natal  day, 
And  so  your  friends  have  gathered  here  to-night, 
'Mong  other  things,  to  make  your  birthday  bright. 
And  may  I  guess  —  I  know  'tis  very  bold  — 
That  you  to-night  are  twenty-five  years  old? 

To  greet  you,  loving  hands  have  deftly  wrought, 
From  glowing  colors,  in  odd  corners  sought, 
A  work,  almost  of  magic,  and  have  built, 
And  now  present  you  with,   this  crazy  quilt. 

By  looking  closely,  you  will  notice  here 
One  large  square  block  put  in  for  every  year, 
For  every  month  a  piece,  in  joining  which, 
They  must  have  used,  for  every  day,  a  stitch. 
The  blocks  are  each  &foot  on  either  side, 
Five  blocks  each  way;  it  can  not  be  denied, 
That  when  one  looks,  there  comes  a  haziness 
O'er  twenty-five  square  feet  of  craziness. 

The  colors  shade,  you  see,  from  grave  to  gay, 

And  so  the  givers  shade,  the  self-same  way, 

Some  dark,  some  light,    and  sometimes  may  be  seen, 

With  other  colors,  just  a  shade  of  green. 

Some  scraps  are  angular,  and  some  are  round, 

The  same  peculiar  features  you  have  found 

In  living  with  us  through  these  many  years, 

Years  that  have  brought  us  all  both  smiles  and  tears. 

The  sharpest  corners  have,  from  day  to  day, 

Under  your  kindly  spirit  worn  away, 

Until  to-night,  in  union  we  all  meet, 


29 

And  each,  as  friend,  can  every  other  greet. 

To  gather  up  these  fragments  rich  and  rare, 

The  whole  great  city  has  been  searched  with  care, 

Dress  patterns  have  been  robbed,  and  I  suppose, 

Some  maidens  may  have  sacrificed  their  bows. 

But  willing  hearts  have  yielded  up  their  best, 

And  busy  hands  have  wrought  with  cheerful  zest. 

'Tis  said  that  gift  is  highest  prized,  which  holds 

Most  of  the  giver  in  its  secret  folds; 

So,  in  these  stitches  many,  you  may  view 

Our  time,  our  kindly  thoughts,  our  love  for  you. 

What  can  you  do  with  it?     I've  thought  it  o'er, 

And  thinking  of  it  has  perplexed  me  sore. 

Some  things  suggest  themselves  within  my  mind, 

And  I  will  hint  at  uses  you  may  find. 

Make  it  a  screen  to  decorate  your  hall, 

Or  hang  it  as  a  picture  on  the  wall, 

Or,  if  you  wish  to  make  the  people  stare, 

Exhibit  it  at  the  next  county  fair, 

Let  Oregonians  gaze,    and  in  each  quirk, 

See  California's  skill  and  handiwork. 

Make  it  a  banner,  floating  to  the  breeze, 

Or  make  a  cushion  of  it,  if  you  please. 

But,  I  would  warn  you,  never ,  never,  spread 

The  quilt  upon  your  loving  husband's  bed; 

For,  looking  at  it,  I  should  hardly  think 

That  underneath  it  he  could  sleep  a  wink. 

One  hurried  glance,  and  how  the  brain  goes  round, 

No  rest  for  eye  or  thought  can  there  be  found; 

The  craziness  would  make  a  well  man  sick, 

If  he  were  ailing,  it  would  end  him  quick. 

But  then,  the  thing  is  handsome,  all  admit, 

And  no  one  dare  find  any  fault  with  it; 


30 

And  gazing  on  it,  when  you're  far  away, 
May  bring  you  pleasant  thoughts  of  San  Jose. 
Accept  this  gift,  which  only  half  reveals 
The  love,  the  sadness  every  block  conceals. 

Hold  !     I  forgot !     One  thing  I  have  omitted, 
Two  ' 'crazy  shams",  which  to  the  pillows  fitted, 
Complete  the  bed,  a  gorgeous  sight  to  view, 
But  still,  alas  !  no  place  of  rest  for  you. 
Admiring  glances  on  yonr  couch  you'll  shed, 
Yet  long  for  one  old-fashioned,  homely  bed. 
So  hang  these,  too,  upon  your  parlor  wall, 
Invite  your  friends,  whene'er  they  chance  to  call, 
To  inspect  the  wondrous  handiwork  suspended, 
But  ne'er  imagine  them  for  use  intended. 


A  goodly  thing  it  is  to  plant  a  tree — 

A  tree  that,  striking  root  deep  in  the  earth, 
The  gentle  mother  who  first  gave  it  birth, 

Spreads  out  its  branches,  lithe  and  strong  and  free. 

And  you  the  class  of  eighteen  ninety-nine, 

Here  plant  the  Silk  Leaved  Oak — the  common  name- 
As  the  Grevillta  wider  known  to  fame  ; 

Strength,  grace,  and  elegance  in  it  combine. 

Its  growing  roots,  strike  downward,  strong  and  deep, 
There  finding  strength  to  meet  the  wintry  blast ; 
So  you  have  sought  for  wisdom  in  the  past, 

And  in  the  future  must  her  precepts  keep. 


An  -.r  away, 

May  noughts  of  San  Jose. 

reveals 
block  conceals. 

a  ing  I  have  omitted, 

-•'e  pillows  fitted, 
to  view, 
ou. 

:1  shed, 
•jiy  bed. 
r  parlor  wall, 
i  they  chance  to  call, 
.work  suspended, 
.ed. 

:-    .  .       :    T-:  •:  ;•:., 
C*».*s  of 


A  tree  tha  .  _ip  in  the  earth, 

The  gen  j.ave  it  birth, 

atrong  and  free. 

And  you  "iir,e*y-nine, 

Here  pi:  :ik  —  the  common  name- 

As  the  Grsvillta  w;  ler  kn^'Ar.  to  fame  ; 

Strength,  gra^  n  it  combine. 

Its  growing  roots,  strike  downv  ;ag  arid  deep, 

There  finding  strength  to  meet  the  wintry  blast  ; 
So  you  have  sought  for  wisdom  in  the  past, 

And  in  the  future  must  her  precepts  keep. 


This  tree,  from  year  to  year,  will  upward  rise, 

Reaching  still  heavenward  toward  the  source  of  light 
Your  aspirations  for  the  pure,  the  right, 

Will  lead  you  day  by  day  toward  the  skies. 

Its  grateful  shadow  shall  refresh  the  earth, 
And  many  shall  seek  rest  beneath  its  shade  ; 
So  let  your  ministrations  e'er  be  made 

Showing  your  genial  nature  and  your  worth. 

Its  coral  flowerets,  too,  shall  please  the  eye; 
And  may  the  graces  of  your  lives  impart 
Something  of  pleasure  to  each  weary  heart ; 

Good  deeds,  kind  words  are  things  that  never  die. 

Long  may  this  tree  thrive  in  our  genial  clime  ; 
Long  may  you  cherish  in  your  inmost  heart 
The  memory  of  this  day ;  may  it  impart 

An  impulse  that  shall  make  each  life  sublime. 

And  as  the  months  and  years  pass  swiftly  by, 
And  often  from  your  chosen  work  you  come 
Back  to  your  Alma  Mater,  once  your  home, 

Watch  how  your  tree  still  stretches  toward  the  sky. 

"No  haste,  no  rest,"  let  this  your  watchword  be, 

Do  each  days  duty  with  a  willing  hand, 

Always  "excelsior," — never  idly  stand, 
Then  shall  you  emulate  your  chosen  tree. 


sSs  frail?  a.  j5>©e:mj  rea.^  ©31)  <SllC©ia:nij;lj>af  ©.a.yfi 


Four  hundred  years  ago  there  stood  a  man 
Upon  the  western  shores  of  the  Old  World, 
Who,  looking  out  upon  the  mighty  deep, 
Saw  more  than  the  illimitable  waste 
That  met  the  vision  of  his  fellow  men. 
He  saw  beyond  the  ever  restless  waves 
A  vision  fair  no  other  eye  had  seen, 
And  that  fair  vision  beckoned  him  to  come. 
*        •*       •* 

With  heart  inspired,  with  feelings  all  aglow, 
With  tongue  persuasive,  yet  with  modest  mien, 
He  plead  for  sympathy,  not  for  himself 
But  for  his  thought,  that  had  so  far 
Outreached  the  world. 

-:•;-        *        •:;:- 

Honor  to  her,  the  gentle,  courteous  Queen, 
Who,  taking  in  his  thought  in  all  its  breadth, 
Saw  a  great  duty  lying  close  at  hand. 
Believing  that  a  people  far  away 
Were  yet  in  ignorance  of  the  blessed  Truth, 
And  that  as  almoner  of  Christ  the  Lord, 
She  should  bestow  the  means  with  bounteous  hand 
To  spread  the  light,  she  pledged  her  royal  gems. 
And  woman  moves  the  world  f 
*        •#-        * 

The  three  small  ships  are  ready  at  the  port  ; 
A  solemn  mass  is  said,  with  many  tears 
God's  blessing  is  invoked  upon  the  band, 
And  great  Columbus,  with  a  faith  sublime, 
Sails  boldly  out  upon  the  pathless  deep. 


33 

"Land  ho  !  "  comes  from  the  lookout's  dizzy  stand. 
"Land  ho !  "  rings  out  in  accents  loud  and  clear. 
The  mystery  is  solved,  the  dark  veil  rent ; 
The  Master  stands  acknowledged  by  his  crew. 
«        *        •* 

With  sword  and  banner  and  with  sacred  cross, 
Now  planted  first  upon  this  unknown  shore, 
He  knelt  in  prayer,  surrounded  by  his  men. 
Then,  in  the  name  of  God  and  of  the  King 
And  of  the  Queen  whose  bounty  sent  him    forth, 
He  took  possession  of  this  wondrous  land. 

-:S  -S  •£ 

How  little  dreamed  he  what  a  world  was  here  ! 
Mountains  that  tov/ering  pierce  the  very  skies  ; 
Great  fertile  valleys,  rich  in  wealth  untold ; 
Rivers  majestic  sweeping  to  the  sea; 
While  lakes  like  oceans  lie  embosomed  there; 
A  glorious  land,  ordained  by  God  to  be 
The  land  of  Freedom,  offering  a  home 
To  all  who  come  seeking  for  Liberty. 
*        *        -* 

Hail !  then,  Columbus,  truly,  grandly  great ! 
Honored  at  first,  then  bound  in  prison  chains. 
The  world  was  not  yet  worthy  of  the  man. 
We  meet  to  honor  thee.     Now  thy  great  name 
Springs  to  fresh  life  ;  it  is  Columbian  Year. 

-*          -s          -# 

To-day  such  grand  Te  Deums  should  arise 

As  lift  all  human  hearts  above  the  earth 

To  the  All-Father  for  his  gracious  gifts. 

And  we,  returning  to  our  happy  homes, 

Should  go  resolved  to  make  this  grand  New  World 

The  home  of  Virtue,  Liberty  and  Peace. 


34 

ien)©riafi  Tree, 


©f  a  ^e^aola  tfarlajj  $*)&  QaHeaj   JTuMEes  of 

^  !  If  fo 


More  centuries  ago  than  man  can  tell, 

Upon  a  mountain  in  this  western  land 
A  little  seed  came,  fluttering  as  it  fell, 

And  soon  was  buried  in  the  shifting  sand. 
Wakened  to  life  by  sunshine  and  by  shower 

Its  roots  grew  downward  deep  into  the  earth, 
The  stem  sprang  upward  with  a  magic  power ; 

Thus  our  Sequoia,  thegiganfea,  had  its  birth. 

Nursed  by  dame  Nature's  ever  fostering  hand 

The  tender  shoot  took  on  a  tree-like  form, 
Developing  a  strength  that  could  withstand 

The  blasts  of  winter,  the  fierce  mountain  storm. 
Its  gray-green  foliage  from  each  passing  cloud 

Condensed  the  moisture  for  the  thirsty  ground ; 
The  summer  breezes  through  its  branches  soughed, 

And  here,  a  genial  home  for  upward  growth  it  found. 

Long  cycles  passed;  its  growth  not  yet  complete 

It  stretched  still  upward  toward  the  source  of  light ; 
The  firs  and  pines  seemed  pigmies  at  its  feet, 

As  thus  it  stood  in  majesty  and  might. 
Fruitage  at  length  appeared  upon  each  bough ; 

By  winds  its  seeds  were  scattered  far  and  wide; 
These  found  a  home  on  mountain  top  and  brow, 

And  struggled  further  down,  upon  its  rugged  sides. 

But  when  the  ice-king  reigned,  the  glacier's  path 
Swept  'round  the  summits,  leaving  there  alone 

The  great  Sequoias;  and  the  storm  king's  wrath 
Disturbed  them  not,  high  on  their  mountain  throne 


f          35 

This  tree  is  California's,  hers  its  fame, 

Its  only  native  home  upon  our  shore; 
Two  nation's  claimed  the  honor  of  its  name, 

But  Wellington  and  Washington  are  heard  no  more.  * 

*  *  * 

Our  sixth  decade  of  Statehood  has  begun  ; 

We  plant,  to-day,  this  fair  Sequoia  tree, 
Memorial  and  symbol,  both  in  one, 

Of  what  our  State  has  been  and  what  shall  be. 
The  honored  Pioneers  from  far  away, 

The  Native  Sons  of  this  our  Golden  West, 
Have  made  this  Jubilee  a  golden  day, 

With  sacred  memories  and  with  richest  promise  blest. 

Around  its  roots,  gathered  with  patient  care, 

Earths  have  been  strewn  from  many  a  field  of  fame, 
Nature's  grand  alchemy  shall  these  prepare 

To  make  one  tree,  it  brooks  not  whence  they  came  : 
And  thus  our  State,  peopled  from  many  lands, 

Shall  like  this  tree  be  unified  and  strong ; 
Joined  each  to  each  by  more  than  iron  bands, 

To  work   for   God   and   right,    and  to  suppress  each 
wrong. 

Dare  we  look  forward — many  hundred  years? 

Withdraw  the  veil  that  kindly  hides  our  fate  ? 
Our  hearts  are  full  of  hopes,  undimmed  by  fears  ; 

The  tree,  the  State  shall  both  alike  be  great: 
The  tree — in  all  its  symmetry  and  grace, 

The  State — in  noble  women,  noble  men, 
Each  having  won  and  held  an  honored  place; 

And  to  this  prayer  let  all  respond,  one  grand  Amen. 

*\Vhen  the  "Big  Tree  Grove"  was  discovered  the  tree  was  to  be  named. 
Dr.  Joseph  Hooker,  the  English  botanist,  supposing  it  to  be  a  new  genus, 
named  it  the  IVellin^toniy,  gi;antca.,  while  Dr.  Kellogg  of  San  Francisco, 
under  the  same  supposition,  named  it  the  Washinqtonia  gigantea.  Closer 
examination  showed  that  it  belonged  to  the  same  genus  as  the  R  edvvood 
Sequoia,  and  by  mutual  agreement  it  took  its  present  name,  Sequoia., 
Ztgantea. 


My  theme  is  progress,  for  "the  world  does  move," 
Mostly,  'tis  true,  along  the  well-worn  groove  ; 
Sometimes  the  wheels  turn  from  the  deepening  ruts, 
And  then,  unheeding  all  the  "if's  and  but's," 
Ic  takes  its  course  along  some  new-found  way, 
Causing  what  seems  "the  wonder  of  the  day." 


Yet  every  year  brings  forth  a  fad,  and  every  month  a 
notion, 

And  each  within  its  little  sphere  creates  a  great  com 
motion  ; 

So  all  who  wish  to  ornament  our  great  and  good  pro 
fession 

Must  do  the  best  they  can,  if  they  would  keep  with  the 
procession. 

Our   mother   tongue  is  being  changed,   alas  !   we    must 

admit  it, 
And  many  a  new  word  has  been  born  without  a  thought 

to  fit  it; 
Old  things  have  been  baptized  anew,  put  on  such   forms 

and  features 

As  make  it  hard  to  recognize  the  once  familiar  creatures. 
Tfie  modern   teacher  who  at  last  becomes  the    proud 

possessor 

Of  a  first  grade  certificate,  at  once  is  dubbed  "Professor." 
A  course  of  study  once  was  thought   a  sturdy  thing   to 

dashon, 
Now  you  must  say  "curriculum"   if   you   would   be    in 

fashion. 


37 

A  school  term's  a   "semester,"   a  school  ground   is   a 

"campus," 

A  strange  philology  indeed,  that  so  far  can  revamp  us. 
Once  girls   wrote    compositions    and   little   boys    spoke 

pieces, 
Now  boys  "pronounce  orations,"   and  little   girls    write 

"theses." 
Soon    we    shall    hear    "commencement   day"    applied 

through  our  whole  nation 
To   what   in   good   old  times  was  called  "beginning  of 

vacation." 


Then  new  words,  long  and  very  strange,  our  mental 
tasks  to  vary 

Have  been  adopted  as  a  part  of  our  vocabulary. 

So  now  things  do  not  harmonize,  they  are  "co-ordinated," 

And  when  they  help  each  other  out,  then  they  are  "cor 
related;" 

Self-consciousness  is  not  the  word,  we  now  say  "apper 
ception," 

That  prefix- syllable  has  had  a  very  warm  reception. 

For  possibilities  that  may  sometime  become  realities, 

There  is  but  one  word  you  must  use,  the  word  "poten 
tialities.''' 

In  journeying  we  no  longer  try  to  find  the  shortest  dis 
tance, 

But  always  strive  to  move  along  "the  line  of  least  resist 
ance." 

No  one  now  says  he  spares  himself,  he  seeks  for  "con 
servation;" 

The  things  are  very  near  alike,  must  be  a  close  relation. 

Once  we  had  knowledge-studies,  and  studies  that  gave 
power, 


Now  these  are  "content";  those  are  "formal" — these 
two  words,  what  a  dower  ! 

And  if  the  thing  goes  bravely  on,  in  word  and  phrase 
oracular, 

We  shall  entirely  "lose  our  grip"  upon  the  plain  verna 
cular. 

All  persons  now  who  wish  to  teach,  it  they  would  make 
the  thing  go, 

Not  only  have  to  learn  the  work  but  also  learn  the 
"lingo". 

'V-  :'.•- 

Once  arithmetic  was  mental,  slate  and  pencil  incidental, 
But  such  mental  work  no  longer  now  is  used; 

But   has   there   been   a  gaming   to  offset   the    splendid 

training 
Of  that  work  when  it  was  used  and  not  abused? 

Then  "concert  recitation"  swept  like  wild-fire   o'er  the 
nation, 

And  it  made  a  really  very  pretty  race; 
To  arrive  at  erudition  "simultaneous  repetition" 

Was  the  only  thing  thought  worthy  of  a  place. 

Now   all  this   is  relegated   to  the  niche  marked    "anti 
quated", 

And  the  pupil  sits  so  silent  on  his  seat, 
And  becomes   so  dull   and   dozy   that   he   very  rarely 

knows  he 
Has  learned  a  single  sentence  to  repeat. 

"Object  lessons"  next   invaded   our   domain;  we   were 

persuaded 

That  the  pupil  should  do  all  his  work  with  things; 
Text-books  were  no  longer  needful,  but  each  pupil  must 

be  heedful 
Of  the  lessons  that  Dame  Nature  ever  brings. 


39 

We  have  now  a  repetition — well,  perhaps  a  new  edition, 
Of  these  lessons,   ' 'Nature  Studies"  it  is  called; 

Very  nearly  the  old  story,  with  a  new  halo  of  glory, 
Asking  for  a  place  in  which  to  be  installed. 

The  old  dry  bones  of  grammar,   over  which   we  used  to 

stammer, 

Were  once  "prophesied  upon"  till  they  had  life; 
How   we  parsed  in   Young   and  Milton !  getting  knowl 
edge  that  was  built  on 
A  foundation  still  the  source  of  ceaseless  strife. 


Next  "Delsarte",  the  graceful  creature,   came   to  be  a 
leading  feature, 

Its  impressions  we  can  hardly  yet  efface; 
By  many  a  weary  tussle  one  can  discipline  each  muscle, 

And  "decompose"  with  dignity  and  grace. 

All  these  fads,  as  I  have  shown  them — and  most  of  you 
have  known  them, — 

Are  now  packed  away,  and  labeled  "out  of  date;" 
But  examine  each  chimera,  it  marks  a  Progress-Era, 

In  the  evolution  of  our  present  state. 


Again,  in  this  connection,  a  pertinent  reflection 
On  the  things  to  be  observed  in  every  fad; 

At  birth,  they  are   not  prominent,  in  growth  becoming 

dominant, 
And  each  has  much  of  good,  and  some  of  bad. 

Each  is  guarded   by  a  "bogie",  the  warning  cry,   "old 

fogy", 
Applied  to  every  one  who  would  oppose, 


40 

Makes  the  timid  teacher  follow  it,  although  he  may  not 

swallow  it, 
So,  however  inconsistent,  on  it  goes. 

*  *  •:• 

Of  the  fads  that  now   are  rampant,  in  less  than  twenty 
years 

Very  few,  I  prophesy,  will  be  alive; 
Let  it  settle  all  our  doubts,  allay  our  anxious  fears, 

To  reflect  that  all  "the  fittest  will  survive." 


Child  Study  is  a  fad,  loud  proclaiming   something  new  ; 

It's  as  old  as  love  within  a  mother's  heart; 
The  most  that  can  be  claimed,  and  that  I  grant  is  true, 

It  is  superseding  nature's  plan  with  art. 


For  the    spirit  of  child-students   I  have    only   words    of 

praise; 

I  believe  the  work  can  so  be  reconciled 
That  children  can  be  studied  in  such   deft  and  subtle 

ways 
As  to  leave  the  charm  of  childhood  with  the  child. 

The  way  is  pointed  out  in  the  Book  so  highly  prized, 

It  is  nature's  plan,  unmodified  by  art; 
No  better  way  has  ever  been,  can  ever  be  devised  : 

"His  mother  kept  these  sayings  in  her  heart." 


Clay  modeling  has  now,  in  a  measure,  quite  displaced 
The  mud-pies  of  our  childhood — what  a  void  ! 

And  the  pocket-knife  that  once  so  many  desks  defaced 
Is  kept  busy  now,  and  teachers  call  it  "Sloyd". 


41 

Psychology  is  here,  and  it  claims  a  title,   "New," 
And  with  it  also  seems  to  "want  the  earth;" 

It  is  robbing  all  its  neighbors,  and,  from  its  "point  of 

view", 
Most  knowledge  with  psychology  had  birth. 


All  this  is  very  well,  but  is  it  not  quite  true 

That  those  men  whose  torches  shed  refulgent  light, 

Never   heard   of  a   psychology,    that   is,    one   labeled 

"New"? 
And  yet  they  led  us  pretty  nearly  right. 


First  the  blade,  so  frail  and  slender,    then  the  ear,  how 

fresh  and  tender, 

And  after  that,  the  full  corn  in  the  ear, 
An  attempt  to  force  the  growing  makes  in  vain  the  care 
ful  sowing, 
For  the  "cheat"  and  not  the  corn  will  then  appear. 


Whoever  draws  a  long-bow   must  be  sure  it  is  a  strong, 
bow, 

And  the  bow-cord  must  give  forth  a  healthy  twang, 
Or  the  arrow,  by  deflection,  may  take   a  new  direction, 

And  become  at  any  time  a  boomerang ! 


Strange  that  a  Christian  nation,  in  its  scheme  of  educa 
tion — 

That  we  are  a  Christian  nation  who  denies?— 
Should  accept  a  Greek  mythology — a  very  lame  apology, 

For  the  broader  faith  we  all  so  dearly  prize  ! 


42 

Go  with  me  to  the  village  school  to-day 
And  see  a  school  taught  in  the  modern  way. 
If  quite  observant,  soon  the  teacher  sees  he 
Must  if  he  would  succeed  make  all  things  easy; 
Therefore  he  gets,  no  matter  what  the  price  is, 
A  multitude  of  schemes  now  called  "devices," 
Ways  to  save  study,  and  make  things  so  thin 
That  an  automaton  could  take  them  in. 
He  must  "develop"  this,  make  it  so  plain 
The  child  can  grasp  it  without  mental  strain; 
"Developing"  is  a  new-fangled  quirk 
In  which  the  teacher  mostly  does  the  work, 
The  pupil  wondering,  we  may  well  suppose, 
"That  one  small  head  can  carry  all  he  knows." 

•f,-  *  * 

When  I  was  young,  ah,  many  years  ago, 
Study  meant  work,  and  we  were  made  to  know 
By  illustrations  of  elaborate  length, 
That  he  who  did  the  work  obtained  the  strength. 
If  this  be  true,  and  who  of  us  can  doubt  it, 
How  will  these  children  get  much  strength  without  it? 
Simplification  has  become  a  "craze," 
An  evil  that  receives  a  world  of  praise. 
If  you  would  send  out  weaklings,  do  their  work, 
Teach  them  thus  early  in  their  lives  to  shirk. 

!'.«  :'.-.  !> 

Now  do  not  for  a  moment  understand 
That  schools  are  not  improving  in  our  land, 
As  I  have  said,  a  loss  goes  with  each  gain, 
To  make  true  progress  then,  the  rule  is  plain; 
Conserve  the  gain,  the  loss  then  minimize. 
This  pre-supposes  that  we  realize 
That  we  must  use  intense  discrimination 
To  recognize  these,  in  the  work  of  education. 
Lacking  this  power,  how  oft  we  go  astray, 
Failing  to  see  which  is  the  better  way. 


San  Jose,  Calif. 


Dedicated  to  the  Teachers  of  California. 


A  SALUTE  TO   THE  FLAG. 

*   *  * 

All  hail  our  Country's  Flag!      We  honor  thce, 
The  Stars  and  Stripes,  fair  emblem  of  the  Free, 

So  widely ,  justly  famed  in  song  and  story! 
Saluting  thee,  this  solemn  pledge  I  give, 
I  will  be  true,  so  long  as  I  shall  live, 

And  ever  loyal  unto  thee,  "Old  Glory" . 

CHAS.  II.  ALLEN. 


Educational  Progress 


ITS  FOIBLES  AND  ITS  FADS 


After,   but  a  great  ways  behind,  an  old  Poem 


BY  PROF.   CHARLES  H.   ALLEN 

SAN  JOS   ' 


Read  at  the 

California  State  Teachers'  Association,  San  Francisco 
December,  1897 


INVOCATION. 

Hail,  Sacred  Muse,  the  fairest  of  the  Nine, 
For  this  one  hour  let  all  thy  powers  be  mine. 
I  beg  of  thee  that  thou  wilt  gently  spread 
Thy  lunds  in  benediction  o'er  my  head; 
Inspire  my  biain  with  true  Promethean  Fire, 
'    My  hand,  that  I  may  strike  the  tuneful  lyre; 
Let  the  divine  afflatus  fill  my  soul 
And  make  mine  eyes  with  a  fine  frenzy  roll; 
Touch  thou  my  pen-point  with  a  living  flame, 
My  lips  with  honey,  that  I  may  proclaim 
In  lofty  measure  and  in  words  refined, 
The  blessings  now  bestowed  upon  mankind. 

Keep  n»y  digestion  good,  my  voice  in  tune, 
That  1  mav  sweetly  sing  my  runic  rune; 
Ik-fore  my  faltering  footsteps  clear  the  way 
Thai:  horn  the  truth  I  never  widely  stray; 
And  may  all  those  who  hear  me,  as  they  may, 
Fech  to  the  other,  sweetly,  softly  say, 
With  not  ?  voice  dissenting,  not  a  nay, 
"We  heard  a  Poet  in  the  hall  to-day; 
H;s  brow  was  haggard  and  his  whiskers  gray." 

Then  can  I  to  all  waiting  ears  impart 

The  trail's  now  burning  in  my  inmost  heart, 

Letting  them  fall  with  such  a  subtle  art 

That  each  shall  reach  its  end  like  magic  dart. 

Grant  these  requests,  O  Gentle  Muse,  and  th^n 

I'll  i.over,  never  trouble  thee  again. 

PROLOGUE. 

We  meet  so  r-any  thir.gs  in  life  that  vex  us  and  harass  us,-  — 

And  this,  your  iiivivritir-n,  that  I  shall  climb  Parnassus 

To  catch  my  dear  old  Pegasus,  and  bring  him  down  to  business, 

Gives  to  my  brain  a  certain  sense  of  weariness  and  dizziness. 

It  sets  my  heart  to  throbbing-  with  tumultuous  commotion. 

And  my  feelings  run  a  riot  like  a  storm-beat,  troubled  ocean. 

T  am  confident  that  few  of  you  have  ever  stopped  to  realize 

The  mental  strain  one  undergoes  in  efforts  to  idealize 

The  prosy,  hnmdnrm,    grinding  work,  the  work  called  pedagogic; 

And  those  who  hove  will  not  expect  good  sense,  good  rhyme,  jjootl 

logic. 

You  see,  my  beast  has  been  so  long  exposed  to  wind  and  weather 
That  he  doesn't  quite  appreciate  the  virtue  of  a  tether; 
He  often  bucks  and  shows  his  heels,  acting  at  times  so  frisky 
That  to  parade  him  here  to-day  may  prove  a  trifle  risky: 
He  cares,  not  he,  for  curb  nor  rein,  for  coaxing  words  nor  banter, 
But  lopes  along,  indifferent,  with  a  clattering  kind  of  canter. 
So  I  must  ride  at  his  sweet  will;  no  use  to  fret  nor  grumble, 
And  T  shall  feel  more  than  content  if  I  don't  catch  a  tumble. 


[     4     ] 

John  Gilpin  once  took  such  a  ride,  the  scene  is  quite  pathetic, 
As  Cqwper  wrote  it  down  for  us,  in  word  and  phrase  poetic. 
Well,  here  I  corne,  with  lance  in  rest,  a  modern  Don  Quixote; 
Whom  I  encounter,  where  I  strike,  I  care  not  one  iota. 
My  subject  gives  a  wondrous  range,  my  measure,  opportunity; 
"Poetic  license."  gives  relief,  from  blame  I  claim  immunity. 
If  heads  are  hit  or  toes  are  cinched,  pray  do  not  be  offended, 
I  simply  tell  you  what  I  think,  and  no  offense  intended. 

CANTO  I. 

My  theme  is  progress,  for  "the  world  does  move," 
Mostly,  'tis  true,  along  the  well-worn  groove; 
Sometimes  the  wheels  turn  from  the  deepening  ruts, 
And  then,  unheeding  all  the  "if's  and  but's," 
It  takes  its  course  along  some  new-found  way. 
Causing  what  seems  "the  wonder  of  the  day." 

Aforetime    there  were  Giants,  we  are  told; 
Ours  it  has  been  some  giants  to 'behold, 
Men  with  great  minds  who  won  the  public  ear, 
Speaking  such  words  as  all  delight  to  hear. 
These  rren  have  taught  us  well,  by  precepts  mild, 
Set  in  oui  midst,  as  did  the  Christ,  the  child, 
Showing  in  words  of  wisdom,  words  of  love, 
That  this,  "the  little  one,"  must  stand  above 
A!!  othei  things,  that  we  must  work  and  plan 
To  tiair  him  toward  the  type,  the  perfect  man. 

These  men  we  honor,  their  grand  work  we  praise. 
For  they  have  taught  us  wiser,  better  ways. 
For  Pestalozzi,  Froebel,  Mann,  and  Page, 
Arnold  of  Rugby,  wisest  of  his  age, 
We  would  entwine  a  wreath  of  fadeless  bays. 
Singing  their  glory  in  no  stinted  phrase. 
They  all  have  passed  away,  their  work  well  done; 
Each  bore  a  torch,  bright,  shining  as  the  sun. 

At  these  great  torches  tapers  have  been  lit, 
Thousands  of  tapers,  can  you  question  it? 
Tapers  that  glimmer  with  a  fitful  glare, 
And  like  an  ignis  fatuus,  lead  us — where? 
Each  one  who  holds  a  taper  cries  aloud, 
Striving  to  win  a  hearing  from  the  crowd: 
"Lo  here,  lo  there,"  in  strident  tones  they  cry, 
"Ye  who  lack  wisdom,  come  to  us  and  buy; 
Not  'without  money'  nor  without  a  price. 
That  were  too  simple;  come  learn  our  device; 
We'll  show  you  how  to  make  proficient  scholars. 
But  you  must  pay  us  well,  where  are  the  dollars? 
Or,  buy  our  book,  you  know  'tis  copyrighted. 
Above  all  things  the  purse  must  not  be  slighted. 
'The  laborer  is  worthy  of  his  hire,' 
If  not  a  hearer,  please  become  a  buyer; 
Wisdom  will  die  with  ns,  do  not  delay; 
Put  up  the  coin, — this  is  the  appointed  way." 


[    5     ] 

And  so  these  taper-men  are  flitting  'round, 
Finding,  of  course,  abundant  threshing-  ground 
On  \\hich  to  thresh  the  old  straw  o'er  and  o'er, 
That  has  been  threshed  a  hundred  times  before. 
I  need  not  tell  you  how  to  recognize 
This  class  of  men — they  all  are  wondrous  wise — 
All  other  ways  but  theirs  they  loud  decry, 
And  every  one  exploits  a  giant  I. 

There  arc  some  torches  yet,  we  have  great  men; 
They  are  not  common  in  our  world,  but  when 
You  meet  one,  you  will  often  be  surprised 
To  find  that  he  has  scarcely  realized 
That  he  is  great;     moreover,  this  I  ween, 
Such  men  are  few  and  very  far  between. 
One  might,  perhaps,  in  looking  o'er  our  land, 
Count  all  upon  the  fingers  of  one  hand; 
Oh,  blessed  hope — how  in  each  heart  it  lingers — 
Your  name  will  find  a  place  upon  those  fingers. 

CANTO  II. 

Ou"  real  progress  has  been  made  by  slow  and  easy  stages, 
As  Mother  Nature  has  been  working  all  along  the  ages: 
Along  the  line  there  is  a  movement,  called  by  some  progression, 
Which  thoughtful  ones  might  designate  merely  a  retrogression. 
If  change  were  progress,  as  some  claim,  in  stilted  declamation, 
To  find  out  now  "where  we  are  at"  would  take  some  calculation. 
The  pendulum  swings  to  and  fro,  sometimes  far  from  the  normal, 
But  always  settles  back  again  into  the  staid  and  formal;      .  »  < 
Yet  e\ery  year  brings  forth  a  fad,  and  every  month  a  notion, 
And  each  within  its  little  sphere  creates  a  grand  commotion; 
So  all  who  wish  to  ornament  our  great  and  good  profession 
Muse  do  the  best  they  can,  if  they  would  keep  with  the  procession. 

Our  mother  tongue  is  being  changed,  alas!  we  must  admit  it, 
And  many  a  new  word  has  been  born  without  a  thought  to  fit  i» ; 
Old  things  have  been  baptized  anew,  put  on  such  form  and  features 
As  makes  it  hard  to  recognize  the  once  familiar  creatures- 
The  modern  teacher  who  at  last  becomes  the  proud  possessor 
Of  a  first  grade  certificate,  at  once  is  dubbed  "Professor:" 
A  couise  of  study  once  was  thought  a  sturdy  thing  to  dash  on, 
Now  you  must  say  "curriculum"  if  you  would  be  in  fashion: 
A  school  term's  a  "semester,"  a  school  ground  is  a  "campus," 
A  strange  philology  indeed,  that  so  far  can  revamp  us; 
Once  girls  wrote  compositions  and  little  boys  spoke  pieces, 
Now  boys  "pronounce  orations."  and  little  girls  write  "theses." 
Soon  we  shall  hear  "commencement  day"  applied  through  our  whole 

nation 
To  what  in  good  old  times  was  called  "beginning  of  vacation." 

, Where  will  this  end?     Oh,  who  can     tell?     Our    words    are     ever 

altering: 

' T.e  in  the  swim,"  adopt  each  word,  and  never  think  of  faltering. 
And  thui  new  words,  long,  very  strange,  our  mental  tasks  to  vary, 
Have  been  adopted  as  a  part  of  our  vocabulary: 
Some  of  them  have  a  fair  excuse,  a  new  thought  is  presented, 


[     6     ] 

But  most  of  them  are  very  old;  why  were  new  words  invented? 
They  sound  more  learned,  it  is  true,  but  had  it  not  been  better 
To  spell  spade,  s-p-a-d-e,  and  never  change  a  letter? 
".Ah,  no/'  our    taper  friends    reply,  "we  make  no  such  concession, 
For  simple,  homelike,  well-known  words  will  make  no  deep  impres 
sion." 

So  now  things  do  not  harmonize,  they  are  "co-ordinated," 
And  when  they  help  each  other  out,  then  they  are  "correlated," 
Self-consciousness  is  not  the  word,  we  now  say  "apperception," 
That  prefix-syllable  has  had  a  very  warm  reception. 
For  possibilities  that  may  sometime  become  realities, 
There  is  but  one  word  you  must  use,  the  word  "potentialities." 
In  journeying  we  no  longer  try  to  find  the  shortest  distance, 
But  always  strive  to  move  along  "the  line  of  least  resistance." 
No  one  now  says  he  spares  himself,  he  seeks  for  "conservation," 
The  things  are  very  near  alike,     must  be  a  close  relation. 
Once  we  had  knowledge-studies,  and  studies  that  gave  power, 
Now  these  are  "content;"  those  are  "formal" — these  two  words,  what 

a  dower! 

And  if  the  thing  goes  bravely  on,  in  word  and  phrase  oracular 
We  shall  entirely  "lose  our  grip"  upon  the  plain  vernacular. 
All  persons  now  who  wish  to  teach,  if  they  would  make  the  thing  go 
Not  only  have  to  learn  the  work  but  also  learn  the  "lingo." 

The  writer  here  desires  to  make  a  pertinent  reflection; 
He  has  for  this  our  mother  tongue  a  genuine  affection: 
He  learnt  it  from  his  mother's  lips,  so  loving  and  so  tender, 
And  he  desires,  as  best  he  can,  to  speak  as  its  defender. 
The  language  that  a  Shakespeare  wrote,  showing  its  wondrous  feat 
ures, 

Should  meet  the  needs  if  not  the  wants  of  nineteenth    century  teachers. 
And  when  a  teacher  strains  a  point,  high  sounding  words  to  borrow, 
He  dare  not  say,  "It  makes  me  tired,"  it  fills  his  heart  with  sorrow. 

CANTO  III. 

It  would  weary  your  attention  should  I  even  try  to  mention 

Half  the  fads  that  have  been  followed  in  the  past; 
I  must  touch  a  few,  but  gently,  and  if  you  watch  intently 

You  will  see  what  I  am  coming  to  at  last- 

It  is  hardly  worth  the  telling,  but  the  old  syllabic  spelling 

Once  held  proud  dominion  over  every  class; 
Now  all  syllabication  has  taken  a  vacation, 

And  the  thoughtful  teacher  cries,   "alack!  alas!" 

On<-e  arithmetic  w.as  mental,  slate  and  pencil  incidental, 

But  such  mental  work  no  longer  now  is  used; 
But  hrs  there  been  a  gaining  to  offset  the  splendid  training 

Of  that  work  when  i't  was  used  and  not  abused? 

Then  "concert  recitation"  swept  like  wild-fire  o'er  the  nation, 

Anc!  it  made  a  really  very  pretty  race; 
To  anive  at  erudition  "simultaneous  repetition" 

Was  the  only  thing  thought  worthy  of  a  place. 


[     7     ] 

Now  all  this  is  relegated  to  the  niche  market  "antiquated," 

And  the  pupil  sits  so  silent  on  his  seat, 
And  becomes  so  dull  and  dozy  that  he  very  rarely  knows  he 

Has  learned  a  single  sentence  to  repeat. 

"Object  lessons"  next  invaded  our  domain;     we  were  persuaded 
That  the  pupil  should  do  all  his  work  with  things; 

Text-books  were  no  longer  needful,  but  each  pupil  must  be  heedful 
Of  the  lessons  that  Dame  Nature  ever  brings. 

Bui  to  do  this,  every  teacher  must  be  more  than  half  a  preacher, 
Must  "understand  all  mystery,  all  knowledge,"  to  succeed; 

Was  it  strange  that  so  to  study  made  the  acquisition  muddy? 
Ficm  the  te!xt-book  we  can  never  quite  be  freed. 

We  have  now  a  repetition — well,  perhaps  a  new  edition, 

Of  these  lessons,  "Nature  Studies"  it  is  called; 
Very  nearly  the  old  story,  with  a  new  halo  of  glory, 

Asking  for  a  place  in  which  to  be  installed. 

The  old  dry  bones  of  grammar,  over  which  we  used  to  stammer, 

Were  once  "prophesied  upon"  till  they  had  life; 

How  we  parsed  in  Young  and  Milton!  getting  knowledge  that  he  was 
built  on 

A  foundation  still  the  source  of  ceaseless  strife. 

The  grammar  exploitation  was  of  very  long  duration, 

L-iving  on  for  very  nearly,  forty  years; 
When  at  last  it  passed  away,  the  thought  of  its  decay 

Has  never  been  the  cause  of  many  tears. 

But  there  came  a  strong  reaction,  other  things  had  more  attraction, 

And  the  study  has  been  driven  to  the  wall; 
Though  once  so  widely  famed  it  has  had  to  be  re-named, 

Arid  the  study  now  is  "language  lessons"  called. 

Years  ago  we  heard  the  ringing  of  the  "geographic  singing," 

When  we  sang  the  states  and  capitals  "by  rote"  ; 
It  came  with  much  persistence,  but  in  all  its  brief  existence 

It  yielded  no  "geographers"  of  note. 

Then  we  had  a  siege  of  "phonics,"  running  through  all  diatonics, 
When  we  spelled  our  reading  lessons  out  by  sound; 

This  led  up  to  "elocution,"  that  ear-electrocution, 
Which  at  last  brought  on  a  serious  re-bound- 

Next  "Delsarte,"  the  graceful  creature,  came  to  be  a  leading  feature. 

Its  impressions  we  can  hardly  yet  efface; 
By  many  a  weary  tussle  one  can  discipline  each  muscle. 

And  "decompose"  with  dignity  and  grace. 

All  these  fads,  as  I  have  shown  them — and  most  of  you  have  known 
them, 

Are  now  packed  away,  and  labeled  "out  of  date"  ; 
But  examine  each  chimera,  it  marks  a  Progress-Era, 

In  the  evolution  of  our  present  state. 


I  am  not  ashamed  to  own  it,  for  some  of  you  have  (known  it, 
I  bowed  down  and  worshiped  all  of  these  in  turn; 

But  we  have  this  consolation,  in  our  glorious  vocation, 
Every  teacher  is  obliged  to  live  and  learn. 

Again,  ir  this  connection,  a  pertinent  reflection 

On  the  things  to  be  observed  in  every  fad; 
At  birth,  they  are  not  prominent,  in  growth  becoming  dominant, 

And  each  has  much  of  good,  and  some  of  bad. 

Each  is  guarded  by  a  "bogie,''  the  warning  cry,  "old  fogy," 

Applied  to  every  one  who  would  oppose, 
Makes  the  timid  teacher  follow  it,  although  he  may  not  ^swallow 

So  however  inconsistent,  on  it  goes. 


CANTO  IV. 
Part  I. 

The  pi  ogress  in  the  past  having  briefly  been  portrayed, 

That  is,  the  fads  that  helped  it  pointed  out, 
It  remains  to  speak  of  this,  the  wonderful  decade, 

When  so  many  startling  fads  are  coming  out. 

Of  the  past,  it  has  been  simple,  these  fads  have  passed  away, 
But  the  present  shows  a  very  different  phase; 

The  "personal  equation"  is  prominent  to-day, 
And  a  speaker  must  be  careful  what  he  says. 

The  self-same  bogie  haunts  us,  "old  fogy"  is  the  cry, 
If  you  don't  fall  in  and  follow  all  that's  new; 

It  is  not  an  easy  matter  for  a  man  as  young  as  I 
To  admit  that  such  a  charge,  perhaps,  is  true. 

But  alas,  it  must  be  done,  my  steed  will  not  be  curbed, 

I  must  speak  of  these  as  freely  as  of  those, 
If  I  seem  to  strike  some  idol,  pray  do  not  be  disturbed, 

For  "the  truth  will  always  triumph  o'er  its  foes." 

Of  the  fads  that  now  are  rampant,  in  less  than  twenty  years 

Very  few,  I  prophesy,  will  be  alive, 
Let  it  settle  all  our  doubts,  allay  our  anxious  fears, 

To  reflect  that  all  "the  fittest  will  survive." 

As  a  fad  the  kindergarten  has  but  recently  had  birth, 

As  a  place  for  homeless  children,  it  is  old; 
And  for  these  it  is  a  charity,  the  grandest  known  to  earth, 

One  that  angels  are  delighted  to  behold. 

out  for  children  with  good  homes,  the  first  five  tender  years 

All  belong  unto  the  mothers  of  our  land;' 
Ah,  who  would  dare  assume  all  the  anxious  hopes  and  fears, 

And  the  tender  ministrations  of  her  hand? 


[     9     ] 

To  the  mother  it  is  precious:  that  is  her  "better  part;" 
And  the  training  that  good  mothers  always  give 

Is  a  beacon  light  to  glory  in  every  human  heart, 
Shining  ever  on,  so  long  as  one  may  live. 

Child  Study  is  a  fad,  loud  proclaiming  something  new; 

It's  as  old  as  love  within  a  mother's  heart; 
Ihe  most  that  can  be  claimed,  and  that  I  grant  is  true, 

!*•  is  superseding  nature's  plan  with  art. 

That  a  modicum  of  knowledge  can  be  gathered  by  this  plan 
You  will  find  no  one  so  foolish  as  to  doubt; 

But  when  it  has  been  gathered,  where  can  you  find  the  man 
Who  can  take  the  facts  and  figure  children  out? 

Ah  no,  my  friends,  believe  me,  child-nature  is  a  thing 
That  no  human  hand  can  measure,  mind  compute, 

Arid  despite  the  work  so  far,  and  the  peans  that  they  sing, 
They  have  shown  us  very  little  useful  fruit. 

The  child  is  made  self-conscious — all  children  like  to  pose— 
And  the  bloom  of  childhood,  how  it  disappears; 

The  children  who  are  "studied"  will  certainly  be  those 
Whom  we  recognize  as  wise  beyond  their  years. 

For  the  spirit  of  child-students  I  have  only  words  of  praise 

I  believe  the  work  can  so  be  reconciled 
That  children  can  be  studied  in  such  deft  and  subtle  ways 

As  to  leave  the  charm  of  childhood  with  the  child. 

The  way  is  pointed  out  in  the  Book  so  highly  prized, 

It  is  nature's  plan,  unmodified  by  art. 
No  better  way  has  ever  been,  can  ever  be  devised; 

"His  mother  kept  these  sayings  in  her  heart." 

Manual  Training  is  so  broad  in  what  it  claims  to  do 

That  its  period  can  hardly  be  defined; 
A  part  of  it  is  old,  but  some  of  it  is  new, 

So  to  treat  it  as  a  fad  I'm  not  inclined. 

Writing,  drawing  and  designing  have  long  been  recognized 
As  "expressive  work"  each  pupil   should  attain; 

But  the  phase  of  it  to-day  that  seems  most  highly  prized 
Is  the  skill  to  use  the  hammer,  saw  and  plane. 

Clay  modeling  has  now.  in  a  measure,  quite  displaced 
The  mud-pies  of  our  childhood — what  a  void! 

And  the  pocket-knife  that  once  so  many  desks  defaced 
Is  kept  busy  now,  and  teachers  call  it  "Sloyd." 

That  each  gain  must  have  its  loss  is  a  universal  law. 

And  all  progress  is  accomplished  at  that  cost; 
We  are  gaining  greater  skill — this  conclusion  I  must  draw, 

The  mischief  and  the  fun  are  nearly  lost. 


[     10    ]        . 

The  training  of  the  child  is  a  company  affair 
In  which  every  home  and  school  should  do  its  part; 

In  laying  out  the  work  we  must  exercise  great  care, 
Or  we  make  a  serious  blunder  at  the  start. 

Is  it  not  the  better  way  to  let  parental  care 
Do  the  things  that  from  a  home  we  should  expect? 

If  we  claim  to  do  it  all,  every  one  must  be  aware 
That  the  home  will  be  the  loser,  by  neglect. 

Psychology  is  here,  and  it  claims  a  title,  "New," 
And  with  it  also  seems  to  "want  the  earth"  ; 

Tt  is  robbing  all  its  neighbors,  and,  from  its  "point  of  view," 
Most  knowledge  with  psychology  had  birth. 

AJ  this  is  very  well,  but  is  it  not  quite  true 
That  those  men  whose  torches  shed  refulgent  light, 

Never  heard  of  a  psychology,  that  is,  one  labeled  "New?" 
And  yet  they  led  us  pretty  nearly  right. 

Ami  what,  may  we  expect  when  the  giants  of  to-day 
Shall  perfect  their  work,  magnificently  great? 

We  bow  our  heads  in  silence,  and  with  bated  breath  we  stay, 
The  coming  revelation  to  await! 


CANTO  IV. 
Part  II. 

Another  fad  prevailing,  protest  is  unavailing, 

When  under  way  a  fad  is  hard  to  stop; 
The  process  of  inversion  causes  pain  and  not  diversion — 

Teaching  literature,  beginning  at  the  top 

The  subject  thus  presented  makes  the  pupil  discontented, 

And  it  seems  to  be  unfortunate  for  both, 
That  teachers  do  not  realize,  in  efforts  to  idealize, 

That  literary  culture  is  a  growth. 

The  work  must  be  amended  to  attain  the  ends  intended, 

Otherwise  we  can  expect  but  poor  results: 
There  can  be  no  great  advancement,  little  culture  or  enhancement, 

In  giving  children  what  was  written  for  adults. 

First  the  blade,   so   frail   and   slender,   then   the   ear,    how   fresh    and 
tender. 

And  after   that,  the  full  corn  in  the  ear, 
An  attempt  to  force  the  growing  makes  in  vain  the  careful  sowing. 

For  the  "cheat"  and  not  the  corn  will  then  appear. 

And  with  this,  in  close  connection,  claiming  from  it  safe  protection, 
Comes  the  "Child  Myth,"  with  its  visionary  claim, 

With  its  boastful  declaration  that  it  trains  imaginaton, 
Though  sometimes  the  thing  receives  another  name. 


[  11  ] 

Between  prevarication  and  a  rich  imagination, 

It  is  difficult  at  times  to  draw  the  line: 
In  childhood  both  are  vigorous,  unless  we  are  quite  rigorous, 

We  must  draw  distinctions  very,  very  fine. 

Whoever  draws  a  long-bow  must  be  sure  it  is  a  strong-bow, 
And  the  bow-cord  must  give  forth  a  healthy  twang, 

Or  the  arrow,  by  deflection,  may  take  a  new  direction, 
And  become  at  any  time  a  boomerang! 

If  we  train  to  observation  of  the  works  of  re-creation 

That  are  going  on  around  us  day  by  day, 
While  useful  knowledge  gaining  there  will  be  enough  remaining 

To  give  the  love  of  mystery  full  play. 

We  have  this  strange  anomaly,  quite  worthy  of  a  homily, 

Of  heathen  gods  we  all  may  teach  at  will, ' 
But  of  the  King  of  Glory  we  dare  not  lisp  the  story, 

But  obey  the  mandate  given,  "Peace  be  still.'" 

Strange  that  a  Christian  nation,  in  its  scheme  of  education — 
That  we  are  a  Christian  nation  who  denies? — 

Should  accept  a  Greek  mythology — a  very  lame  apology, 
For  the  broader  faith  we  all  so  dearly  prize! 

Now  with  emphasis  T  say,  I  believe  in  all  of  these, 

All  are  excellent,  if  kept  where  they  belong; 
It  is  only  when  o'er-dominant  that  their  profound  decrees 

Can  lead  us  to  results  that  may  be  wrong. 

And  one  reason  I  have  spoken  of  the  fads  I  have  to-day, 

The  fads  that  some  of  you  so  highly  prize, 
Is  to  call  to  your  attention,  in  a  somewhat  pleasant  way, 

The  places  where  the  danger  chiefly  lies. 


CANTO  V. 

Now  let  us  turn  to  other,  lighter  things, 
Observing  all  the  good  that  progress  brings; 
Go  with  me  to  the  village  school  to-day 
And  see  a  school  taught  in  the  modern  way. 
If  quite  observant,  soon  the  teacher  sees  he 
Must  if  he  would  succeed  make  all  things  easy; 
Therefore  he  gets,  no  matter  what  the  price  is, 
A  multitude  of  schemes  now  called  "devices," 
Ways  to  save  study,  and  make  things  so  thin 
•That  an  automaton  could  take  them  in. 
He  must  "develop"  this,  make  it  so  plain 
The  child  can  grasp  it  without  mental  strain; 
"Developing''  is  a  new-fangled  quirk 
Ir  which  the  teacher  mostly  does  the  work, 
The  pupil  wondering,  we  may  well  suppose, 
That  one  small  head  can  carry  all  he  knows. 

When  I  was  young,  ah,  many  years  ago, 
Study  meant  work,  and  we  were  made  to  know 
By  illustrations  of  elaborate  length, 


[     12     ] 

That  he  who  did  the  work  obtained  the  strength. 

If  this  be  true,  and  who  of  us  can  doubt  it, 

How  will  these  children  get  much  strength  without  it? 

Simplification  has  become  a  "craze," 

Ar.  evil  that  receives  a  world  of  praise. 

If  you  would  send  out  weaklings,  do  their  work, 

Teach  them  thus  early  in  their  lives  to  shirk. 

Now  do  not  for  a  moment  understand 
That  schools  are  not  improving  in  our  land: 
As  I  have  said,  a  loss  goes  with  each  gain, 
To  make  true  progress  then,  the  rule  is  plain; 
Conserve  the  gain,  the  loss  the'n  minimize: 
This  pre-supposes  that  we  realize 
That  we  must  use  intense  discrimination 
To  recognize  these,  in  the  work  of  education. 
Lacking  this  power,  how  oft  we  go  astray, 
Failing  to  see  which  is  the  better  way. 

I  thought  to  make  my  paper  bright  and  sprightly, 
To  touch  our  fads  and  foibles  very  lightly; 
A  man  once  tried  to  live  upon  his  wits 
And  failed  for  want  of  capital;  this  fits 
The  present  case, — and  I  have  not  succeeded 
Because  this  useful  warning  was  unheeded. 
You  know,  yourselves,  the  wonderful  facility 
With  which  one  over-rates  his  own  ability; 
And  more,  there  are  some  subjects  so  far-reaching, 
Connected  with  our  work,  the  work  of  teaching, 
That  to  a  man  who  feels  and  judges  rightly 
It  seems  a  sacrilege  to  treat  them  lightly. 


L'ENVOI. 

My  theme  is  not  exhausted,  it  is  different  with  you, 
I  have  done  the  very  best  within  my  power; 

But  there  are  so  many  fads,  what  can  a  speaker  do 
When  they  cut  him  down  to  less  than  half  an  hour?, 

If  your  fad  has  been  omitted,  the  one  you  hold  most  dear, 
Do  not  yield  to  disappointment,  nor  be  vexed; 

It  is  doubtless  worth  attention,  and  I  promise  now  and  here 
To  treat  it  very  fully  in  my  next. 

If  in  rounding  out  a  period,  or  fitting  up  a  rhyme 
Some  of  the  fads  I've  seemed  a  trifle  hard  on, 

I  am  ready  for  forgiveness,  and  speak  of  it  in  time, 
Feeling  sure  I  shall  receive  abundant  pardon. 

Then  with  thanks  for  the  attention  you  have  given  to  my  lay, 

An  attention  that  has  wearied  you,  I  fear, 
I  close  with  cheerful  greetings,  and  from  my  heart  I  say, 

I  wish  you  all  a  happy  glad  New  Year. 


tr\£  ppi^nsls  WQO 


Reception;  p^eb.  11,  lc)00;  in 


PRESS  OF  BROWER  &  SON,  SAN  JOSE,  CAL. 


SAN  JOSK,   March,  1900. 

DEAR  FRIENDS  : 

The  reception  recently  tendered  me  was  worthy  of 
more  than  a  mere  passing  acknowledgment.  It  is 
impossible,  by  personal  letters,  to  make  this  acknowledg 
ment,  for  a  large  number  generously  responded  to  the 
invitation  of  your  Committee.  May  I  therefore  beg  you 
to  accept,  in  place  of  what  I  would  like  to  do,  this  little 
memorial. 

To  say  that  I  was  deeply  touched  by  the  demon 
stration  of  your  kind  remembrance  and  good  will,  but 
feebly  expresses  rny  feelings.  I  may  confess  to  you 
that  during  the  last  few  years  I  have  sometimes  doubted 
if  the  work  I  attempted  to  do  with  and  for  you  had 
secured,  in  any  considerable  degree,  the  ends  at  which 
I  aimed,  and  for  which,  in  my  imperfect  way,  I  so  earn 
estly  labored. 

While  the  general  scope  of  this  work  was  to  aid 
you  in  acquiring  a  limited  amount  of  knowledge  about 
certain  subjects,  and  more  especially  about  the  art  and 
science  of  teaching,  there  was  always  abiding,  deep  in 
my  heart,  a  strong  desire  to  aid  you  in  becoming  manly 
men  and  womanly  women,  as  well  as  to  awaken  and 
stimulate  in  you  new  and  stronger  aspirations  toward  a 
pure,  noble,  Christian  life. 

The  sentiments  so  well  and  so  universally  expressed 
in  the  papers  and  letters  read  upon  that  ever-to-be- 
remembered  occasion,  and  in  the  many  other  letters 
received,  have  fully  convinced  me  that  our  work,  for  I 


wish  to  include  in  this  the  splendid  work  of  the  noble 
men  and  women  that  I  was  permitted  to  select  as  my 
associates,  has  not  been  in  vain.  I  am  comforted,  for  I 
can  say  with  Byron  : 

"If  in  your  memories  dwell 
A  thought  that  once  was  his,  if  on  you  swell 
A  single  recollection,  not  in  vain 
He  wore  the  sandal-shoon,  the  scallop-shell." 

For  this  I  thank  you  all. 

The  little  volume,  so  daintly  gotten  up  and  so 
gracefully  presented,  made  up  of  selections  from  the 
"waifs  of  my  brain,"  that  you  had  the  temerity  to 
print,  was  indeed  a  surprise.  Doubtless  your  kind  feel 
ings  for  the  author  have  led  you  to  esteem  them  more 
highly  than  they  deserve.  They  will,  henceforth,  have 
to  me  an  added  value — your  appreciation.  Even  a 
casual  reader  will  observe  that  few  of  them  were  written 
for  the  public  eye,  and  but  for  you  they  never  would 
have  taken  their  present  form. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  on  the  occasion,  there 
was  a  collection  of  poems  read,  from  graduates  of  the 
school,  entitled,  "A  Jingle  of  Many  Bells."  This 
most  of  you  have  never  seen,  and  I  take  pleasure  in 
putting  it  into  your  hands.  They  are  grave  and  gay, 
running  through  the  entire  gamut,  from  the  mere  rhyme 
ster  to  the  true  poet ;  but  I  can  assure  you  that  the 
undertone  of  friendship,  permeating  all,  is  as  sweet  in 
the  one  as  in  the  other. 


We  once  had  a  cynic  in  the  faculty,  and  had  these 
poems  appeared  at  that  time  they  would  have  given  rise 
to  something  like  this :  "  Well,  here  comes  one  more 
objection  to  Normal  schools ;  if  they  are  to  turn  loose 
upon  a  suffering  public  a  crop  of  would-be  poets." 
However,  as  less  than  one  per  cent  of  our  graduates 
is  represented,  though  doubtless  others  are  guilty,  the 
public  can  endure  it. 

Let  me  close  by  again  cordially  thanking  you,  and 

sign  myself  as 

Ever  your  friend, 

CHAS.  H. 


A  Jingle  of  Many  Bells. 

i. 

INTRODUCTION. 

A  nightingale,  so  reads  an  old  time  story, 
Who'd  sung  all  day,  still  mid  the  evening  glory, 
Poured  forth  her  cheerful  notes  in  generous  measure, 
For  cheer  of  villagers  and  children's  pleasure. 

So  you,  dear  friend,  who,  with  poetic  greetings, 
Have  furnished  cheer  for  anniversary  meetings, 
Have  led  us  on  with  words  and  strains  inspiring, 
In  service  to  the  Muse  are  still  untiring ; 
And  when  for  festival  or  feast  we  mingle, 
We're  apt  to  look  to  you  to  write  a  jingle, 
Quite  confident  that,  like  the  bird  of  fable, 
To  still  sing  on  you'll  always  prove  well  able. 

To-night  it  comes  our  turn  to  bring  the  offering; 
You  are  the  honored  guest  to  whom  we're  proffering 
Our  best  respects,  with  hearts  quite  in  a  flutter, 
And  each  arrayed  in  his  best  bib  and  tucker. 
And  as  we  add  to  these,  esteem,  affection, 
The  best  that  we  can  bring  in  each  direction, 
We  keenly  feel  how  much  we  need  a  poet — 
A  genius,  who  would  know  just  how  to  do  it. 

As  names  of  graduates  many  we  con  over, 

But  one  a  famous  poet  we  discover — 

Charles  Edwin  Markham,  whom  the  world  is  knowing 

As  author  of  "  The  Man  that  did  the  hoeing" 

If  he  were  here,  to  help  us  we'd  beseech  him, 

But  as  he's  gone  to  eastward,  we  can't  reach  him. 

For  every  hour  of  need  a  hero's  ready; 
And  humbler  rhymesters,  though  with  nerves  unsteady, 
Said,  "Verses  we  must  have,  and  so  to  make  'em 
We  pledge  ourselves — or  save  our  necks  or  break 


We  oft  had  heard  and  read,  in  various  places, 

Of  lt  Pfg&SUS)"  a  steed  of  wondrous  paces, 

On  whose  broad  back  one  mounts  and  rides  ecstatic, 

With  frenzied  eyes  and  utterings  erratic. 

Few  of  us  knew  at  all  what  he  resembled, 

And  those  who  did,  to  mount  him  sorely  trembled. 


We'd  also  heard  a  Muse  the  poet  guided, 
But  no  directory  told  where  she  resided; 
And  as  we  sought,  with  consternation  smitten 
We  found  the  words  " divine  afflatus"  written. 
Here  was  a  term  our  puzzled  brains  to  addle ; 
Was  this  the  beastie's  bridle,  or  his  saddled 

Our  steeds  once  mounted  by  their  trembling  masters, 
They  showed  no  willingness  to  leave  their  pastures. 
Some,  from  long  rest,  were  stiff,  and  some  were  frisky, 
Some  had  lame  feet,  which  made  the  riding  risky ; 
And  some  that  looked  and  trotted  well  unmated, 
When  matched  with  others,  proved  quite  different  gaited. 

So  we  set  out   resolved  on  death  or  glory. — 

But  of  that  ride,  ask  not  to  hear  the  story. 

You  oft  have  told  us,  in  poetic  measure, 

That  gift  is  ever  prized  as  greatest  treasure, 

In  which  most  of  the  giver's  self  is  hidden. 

If  so,  could  you  but  know  the  ride  we've  ridden — 

The  grievous  stumbling  over  stony  places, 

The  perspiration  rolling  down  our  faces, 

As  whip  and  spur  we  plied  through  brush  and  bramble, 

To  make  our  stubborn  beasts  consent  to  amble, 

The  spurts,  that  made  the  echoing  hills  to  rumble, 

The  sudden  stops,  resulting  in  a  tumble — 

Could  this  tale  all  be  told,  from  start  to  ending, 

As  home,  afoot,  our  weary  way  we're  wending, 

You'd  know  that,  if  as  poets  we're  "  not  in  it," 

We've  given  ourselves  to  end  and  to  begin  it. 

Ruth  Royce. 


II. 

This  offering  of  love  we  bring  to-night, 
This  birthday  greeting  to  our  poet-sage, 
We  call  a  '  'medley' '  poem  (?) — term  most  fit 
For  such  a  group  of  fragments  as  our  lines. 
Yet  who  has  ever  heard  in  voice  or  song 
A  medley  carrying  through  its  every  change 
The  unifying  swell,  the  underflow 
Of  one  deep  feeling,  as  may  here  be  found? 
For  let  the  lines  be  either  grave  or  light, 
Ever  one  common  heart-throb  sent  them  forth ; 
And  he,  our  friend,  with  ear  to  truth  attuned, 
Will  hear  that  cadence  and  its  import  feel. 

Laura  BethelL 


III. 

Dear  friends,  my  memory  turns  to-night 
To  other  scenes,  to  other  joys, 

And  backward  rolls  old  Time' s  swift  flight 
To  days  when  we  were  girls  and  boys. 

The  pranks  we  played,  the  merry  jest, 

In  vivid,  joyous  pictures  rise ; 
We  tell  them  o'er  with  hearty  zest, 

With  laughing  lips,  but  tearful  eyes. 

The  days,  that  then  were  free  from  care, 
Have  since  been  filled  with  worldly  strife 

And  distant  views  that  looked  so  fair, 
Turned  rugged  steeps  in  the  Hill  of  Life. 

The  brave  ones  climb  the  upward  way, 
With  merry  song  and  laughing  jest 

As  they  hew  and  toil ;  while  others  play, 
And  the  tired  ones  sink  to  early  rest. 

But  he  who  led  us,  teacher  still 

And  friend,  he's  lingered  on  the  way ; 

Some  of  us  feel  December' s  chill, 
He  gathers  yet  the  flowers  of  May. 


9 


Dear  Father  of  us  all,  we  pray 

For  strength  to  meet  life's  pain,  L,ife's  joys ; 
Though  passing  years  turn  hair  to  gray, 

At  heart  still  keep  us  girls  and  boys. 

Alice  Ely  the  Wilson. 


IV. 

When  called  to  join  the  band  of  rhymesters, 
I  pondered  o'er  what  I  should  say, 

My  mind  insistently  reverted 

To  the  ''Method  hour"  in  old  "Room  K." 

There  happy  hours  we  spent  as  Seniors, 
Heeding  intent  all  you  would  say — 

The  sound  advice  so  wisely  given, 

Wise  words  that  helped  us  day  by  day. 

Our  greetings  fond  we  gladly  send  you, 

With  those  of  others  far  away. 
Your  children  ever  call  you  blessed 

For  lessons  taught  us  in  "  Room  K." 

S.  Ellen  McFarland. 


V. 

By  the  law  of  the  old  school  circle, 

'Tis  written  in  letters  of  gold, 
The  Beloved  is  never  forgotten, 

Much  less  can  he  ever  grow  old. 

Because  of  the  love  that  he  gave  us, 
Far  more  than  for  all  that  he  taught, 

Because  of  his  true  loving  kindness, 

For  his  joy  loving  gifts  are  now  brought. 

So  for  our  beloved  Professor 

This  queer  little  jingle  I  send, 
With  the  hope  that  some  added  pleasure 

Its  sincere  best  wishes  may  lend. 

Annie  Kohler. 


10 
VI. 

How  dear  to  my  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  school  days, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view, 
The  class-room,  the  hall  where  we  gathered  on  Fridays, 
And  every  loved  spot  that  our  youthful  steps  knew. 
The  long,  windy  corridors  down  which  we  wandered, 

In  twos  and  in  threes,  arm  in  arm,  side  by  side, 
The  spelling  we  conned  and  the  lessons  we  pondered, 
And  even  the  training  school,  where  our  hopes  died. 
Troublesome  training  school, 
Bothersome  training  school, 
Tear-starting  training  school, 
Where  our  hopes  died. 

How  well  I  remember  the  mornings,  when  tripping 

Across  the  wet  square  with  our  books  at  our  backs, 
WTe  jumped  over  puddles  or  else  landed  dripping 

Where  thick,  black  adobe  soon  moulded  our  tracks. 
But,  midst  all  the  scenes  in  those  days  that  are  vanished, 

Filled  with  youthful  delights  and  with  high  swelling  pride, 
There  is  one  that  stands  out  and  will  not  be  banished, 
'Tisthe  terrible  training  school,  where  our  hopes  died. 
Heart-breaking  training  school, 
Soul-aching  training  school, 
Brain-sick' ning  training  school, 
Where  our  hopes  died. 

The  old  class  in  methods,  when,  note-books  before  us, 

We  jotted  the  points  that  made  teaching  so  plain, 
That  we  longed  for  the  time,  when,  with  classes  before  us, 
We  could  practice  the  wisdom  we'd  stored  in  our  brain. 
But,  alas  for  our  hopes  and  our  youthful  ambition, 

Alas,  for  the  methods  we  studied  with  pride, 
In  spite  of  our  aim  and  our  vast  ammunition, 

We  wept  in  the  training  school,  where  our  hopes  died. 
Much-dreaded  training  school, 
Sleep-spoiling  training  school, 
Soul-racking  training  school, 
Where  our  hopes  died. 


11 

The  swift  passing  years  have  brought  changes  and  sorrow, 

Old  faces  are  gone  and  old  voices  are  hushed, 
But  hope  always  points  to  a  beautiful  morrow, 

And  hearts  do  not  break,  though  so  sorely  they're  crushed. 
So,  we  joy  in  the  life  that  among  us  still  lingers, 

And  now,  may  the  love  and  the  homage  we  bear, 
Be  woven  in  garlands  by  magical  fingers, 
And  placed  by  our  hands  on  his  silvery  hair. 
In  spite  of  the  training  school, 
Hair-bleaching  training  school, 
Ghost-breeding  training  school, 
Now  laid  aside. 

Mrs.  S.  Estelle  Greathead. 


VII. 

There  comes  a  long  procession 
From  the  glimmer  of  long  ago, 

And  the  faces  that  pass  before  me 
Are  those  of  friends  I  know. 

As  they  come  and  go  in  the  flicker 

That  memory  holds  so  dear, 
A  mystical  spell  enwraps  me, 

And  one  stands  out  most  clear. 

The  merry  eyes  have  a  sparkle 

That  illumined  us  when  we  were  glad, 

And  sympathy's  tears  would  dim  them 
In  the  hours  when  we  were  sad. 

To  the  timid  and  homesick  stranger 
There  was  ever  the  word  that  cheers 

That  only  real  friends  can  give  us, 
To  chase  away  our  fears. 

And  now  if  in  some  small  measure, 

In  the  twilight  of  his  day, 
We  can  smooth  out  some  rough  places, 

God  grant  our  full  hearts  may. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Sargent  Wilson. 


12 
VIII. 

NOTE.-  The  concluding  stanzas  of  a  longer  poem,  reminescent  of 
the  school  and  faculty  during  Mrs.  Gray's  Normal  days. 

Dear  Teachers  of  the  precious  olden  time  when  life  was  new, 
We  are  thinking  not  so  much  of  what  you  taught  us 

But  we  come  to-night  with  greetings,  greetings  warm  and  true 
And  our  lives  are  full  of  good  that  you  have  brought  us. 

We  are  thinking  of  the  strange  and  winding  route  by 

which  we've  come 

To  the  mile-post  that  to-night  we  celebrate, 
Since  the  day  you  said  "  God  speed  you,"  as  we  started 

from  our  home 
And  set  forth  with  hope  to  seek  life's  Golden  Gate. 

And  we  hope  at  this  home-coming  you  will  let  us  speak  our  mind; 

We  are  better,  as  life's  journey  we  pursue ; 
And  we  love  our  neighbor  better,  to  his  failings  are  more  kind, 

Because  we  walked  along  the  way  with  you. 

Our  joy  in  life  is  greater,  and  our  hearts  with  peace  are  blest  ; 

Under  trial  our  long-suffering  is  more, 
And  we  know  that  meekness,  gentleness  and  temper 
ance  are  best, 

This  you  taught  us  by  the  characters  you  bore. 

Do  not  think  our  words  are  idle,  for  we  give  you  honest  praise, 
And  with  gratitude  unfeigned  our  hearts  are  swelling, 

To  you  who  link  the  present  with  the  precious  by-gone  days, 
And  to  those  who  now  in  paradise  are  dwelling. 

You  are  standing  near  the  summit  with  the  sunset's  golden  glory 

Falling  over  you,  and  all  the  landscape  fair ; 
We  are  following,  far  below  you — but  we've  learned  the 

"old,  old  story," 
"When  the  roll  is  called  up  yonder,"  we'll  be  there. 

Harriet  Haile  Gray. 


13 
IX. 


I  saw  a  long,  long  line  of  teachers  pass, 
And  when  I  spoke  one  name, 
Response  in  answer  came  : 

* '  He  opened  to  our  feet  the  wider  world 
And  led  us  on  and  on  ; 
The  memory  has  not  gone 

' '  Of  all  the  patient  wisdom  of  his  art ; 
Teaching,  he  made  us  long 
To  reach,  and  teach  the  throng. 

11  He  urged  us  forward  to  no  fairy  field ; 
While  ideal  worlds  were  his, 
He  knew  the  world  that  is, 

"And  honest,  with  parental  wisdom  taught 
The  real,  whereon  to  build 
Toward  hopes  yet  unfulfilled. 

"  He  turned  us  toward  his  much-loved  books, 
As  one  with  faith  commends 
The  utterance  of  friends. 

' '  His  teachings  still  in  heart  we  hold, 
And  from  the  teachers'  ranks, 
Return  to  him  our  thanks. 

"  And  teaching  what  we  learned  from  him, 
We  let  our  pupils  know 
To  whom  their  thanks  they  owe. 

"  The  patriarchal  honor  his  ! 
His  pupils'  pupils  hear 
His  name  with  reverence  dear." 

Laura  Everett. 


14 
X. 

Psalter.     Psalms  21-6. 

There's  a  melody  in  spring  time, 

There's  a  rhythm  in  the  air ; 
There' s  harmony  of  sight  and  sound 

With  gladness  everywhere; 
A  time  for  happy  greeting, 

For  joyous  roundelay, 
To  wish  thee  all  things  fair  and  good 

And  a  happy  after-day. 

There's  the  gladness  of  the  spring  time 

Perennial  in  thy  heart, 
A  contentment  through  life's  changes, 

'Tis  thy  lesson  to  impart. 
There  is  sunshine  in  thy  dear,  kind  eyes, 

A  ringing  in  thy  voice, 
The  cheeriness  our  Father  gives 

To  the  children  of  His  choice. 

As  the  trees  drink  in  the  sunshine, 

To  give  back  in  fruit  and  leaf, 
As  the  grain  and  grass  take  light  and  warmth, 

Fulfilled  in  bind  and  sheaf; 
So  thy  deeds  of  pleasant  kindness, 

And  thy  words  of  loving  care, 
Come  back  in  love's  full  measure 

From  thy  children — everywhere. 

There  is  no  older  growing 

When  the  heart  is  always  young, 
With  the  lasting  sure  felicity, 

As  the  Psalms  have  ever  sung; 
That  is  the  larger  sunshine 

To  make  all  pathways  bright 
By  thy  cheer  and  trusty  friendships 

And  thy  counsels — always  right. 


15 


With  the  brightness  of  the  spring  time 

This  wish  is  sent  full  free, 
That  each  year  may  near  the  blessing 

Of  the  sure  felicity 
That  shows  life's  compensations 

To  brighten  all  the  way, 
For  the  lights  of  "life's  west  windows " 

Are  the  brightest  of  the  day. 

Mrs.  Bertie  Week  Fitzell. 


XL 
LIFE'S  SEA-FARER. 

Into  another  port,  dear  friend,  thy  good  ship  sails  to-day, 
Out  from  God's  mystic  deep, 
Where  Time  and  Eternity  sleep. 
Like  a  sea-bird  emerging  from  mists  of  gray, 
Iced  with  storms,  and  white  with  spray, 
Thy  ship  seeks  a  haven  to-day. 

On  Life's  broad  seas,  brave  captain,  thou  hast  served 

at  watch  and  wheel, 
Where  reign  the  fierce  storm-kings, 
Where  the  wandering  albatross  wings 
Its  untiring  flight ;  where  weird  waters  feel 
The  breath  of  Wrath,  and  the  brain  doth  reel 
As  the  mariner  stands  at  the  wheel. 

And  now  as  thou  sail'st  from  port  to-day,  borne  on 

toward  realms  unknown, 
Far  out  on  God's  mystic  deep 
Where  Love  and  Destiny  sleep, 

In  the  trust  ever  strong  that  He  knoweth  His  own, 
Thou  never  shalt  wander,  aimless,  alone, 
On  the  limitless  seas  unknown. 

John  G.  Jury. 


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